Gifts for the Sun
by 2941
Summary: "What's west of Westeros?" As the War of Five Kings concludes and the Great Houses face East toward an ascendant Targaryen, a lowly family of the Reach and the highborn Daynes of Starfall find an answer to this question. A strange folk that claim to have sailed across the Sunset Sea come bringing offerings of gold, weapons, and knowledge, all in exchange for gifts for the sun.
1. Part 1

[Major characters on Westorosi side, along with titles, cities, and timeline are all canon compliant (with some minor additions). OCs heavily inspired by pre-Columbian cultures. Please fave/follow/review if you enjoy!]

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GIFTS FOR THE SUN

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A MADMAN CONSOLES HIS SON

With his bid for Lord Reaper dismissed Lord Gylbert Farwynd sets course for home. He had no real choice in the matter: Euron Greyjoy would not have him nor any of his three sons as part of his fleet, for fear that the entire Farwynd line had been tainted by the father's madness. It had not of course, for there is no madness, Lord Farwynd thinks to himself. Still, this is little consolation to Gyles, Ygon, and Yohn. On the sail back to their island from Great Wyk, as his sons work the rigging or steer at the helm, Lord Farwynd notes in their faces a look of disappointment long expected, a great wave of foreboding finally crashed against the shore. No doubt they felt themselves fools to stand by a man that the kingsmoot ridiculed as delirious from sun and sea, thinks Lord Farwynd to himself. But the truth is the truth.

After eight quiet days at sea the island of the Lonely Light comes into view. A rocky shoreline rises up from the water, surrounded by clusters of stone outcroppings where rock-seals sunbathe and sleep, to form an island plateau on which people have established their rickety wooden homes. One can see the bustling masses of peasantry on the shore busy with the goings on of humanity, while at sea all around the island small fishing vessels wander here and there. Behind them all at the western edge of the isle rises the modest stone castle of House Farwynd, the Bulwark of Salt, which itself hosts the lightower that is the westernmost point in all of Westeros, a turret known as the Last Light.

Apart from this island silhouette there is nothing. To the left and the right, above and below, the blues of sea and sky extend on forever.

As his sons oversee the unloading of House Farwynd's small fleet, Lord Gylbert Farwynd and his royal entourage make for the Bulwark of Salt. He's been away for many weeks now and he doesn't want to neglect his youngest for any longer than he needs to. His heart needs some relief.

Lord Farwynds first three were born to his first wife Gwyndolyn, but the third birth proved too much for that lovely woman. Little Grygory Farwynd was born of a saltwife, taken whilst Lord Farwynd reaved the mainland out of bitterness, saddened that his wife would not live to see the Land of the Dawn. Little Grygory is only seven years old, nine years younger than his next oldest brother Yohn, with black hair, pale skin, and dark eyes flecked with different colors, much like his father.

On arriving at the Bulwark Lord Farwynd's servants inform him that Little Grygory can be found in his most favorite of all places: at the top of the Last Light. Lord Farwynd makes his way up the cold steps, carved into the gray stone of the island, to find the great brazier of fire at the top of the lighthouse unlit. His youngest is at the railings, peering out toward the west.

"Grygory, I thought we had an understanding," says Lord Farwynd, "you could come up here only to light the light."

"Father!" says little Grygory, surprised. The boy turns and runs into his father's embrace.

"I saw the Blue Wynd coming earlier," says little Grygory, "and that's when I remembered I had to light the fire, but then I got distracted, because I thought about you, and why you were back, and about the Land of the Dawn.

"Since you're here, does this mean you aren't Lord Reaper?" asks little Grygory.

"I'm afraid so little one," says Lord Farwynd, "the ironborn did not believe in me, and they chose someone else to be king of the Iron Islands."

"Who?" asks little Grygory.

"Euron Greyjoy," says Lord Farwynd, "Lord Reaper Euron Greyjoy," he corrects himself.

"Why didn't they believe in you?" asks little Grygory.

"I don't know," says Lord Farwynd, "I suppose I couldn't offer them any proof, just my word."

"You could have used the foreign words," says little Grygory, "like you showed me."

The swishy language of the People of the Dawn, Lord Farwynd thinks to himself. It's true, he could have spoken in that tongue to his ironborn peers. But they were already skeptical of his claims, and he feared that to speak foreign words just then would have made him look even more like a raving madman.

"Perhaps I could have," says Lord Farwynd to his son. He looks out at the sea toward the west as his son was doing, "perhaps I should have," he corrects himself again.

"Does this mean we won't be going to the Land of the Dawn?" asks little Grygory.

"No," says Lord Farwynd, "I'm afraid we won't."

Lord Farwynd looks down at his youngest son and sees the boys shoulders slump. Little Grygory turns away from his father and looks out at the sea as well, his young face forlorn.

"But perhaps you will be able to go, someday," says Lord Farwynd.

"How? The Lonely Light is small. You said we would need the help of Great Wyk," says little Grygory.

"The Lonely Light is small," says Lord Farwynd, "and we don't have the ships or the men, or at least, not yet. But we can put the pieces together - a new ship here, a cache of supplies there - so that in time we can afford to make the crossing. It will take a long time, that's true. I will be dead and you might be an old man by the time the fleet is ready once more, but you will be able to go and see it."

"Do you really think so father?" asks little Grygory.

"Yes, of course," says Lord Farwynd. The truth is the truth. The only reason he is willing to let his other sons go and risk their lives reaving is because he knows that should they all fall in battle little Grygory will be here to continue his legacy of westward exploration. Little Grygory will lead a fleet into the Sunset Sea of so many ships and men that he'll be able to bring back the exotic treasures of that alien continent. Little Grygory will redeem his family's name.

"Will you tell me the story again?"

"Where should I start?," asks Lord Farwynd. Outside of the few men that returned with him little Grygory is the only person who's ever wanted to talk with Farwynd about what he saw across the sea. Not wanting to disappoint the boy Lord Farwynd long ago started embellishing the story so as to keep the little one's attention, and with so many years between him and that fateful voyage, the embellishments have become indiscernible from memory.

"Start from the storm," says little Grygory.

"Ah yes. When the Storm God brought his wrath down upon the sea," begins Lord Farwynd, "We thought that we had perhaps angered him with our audacity, since at this point we were farther west in the Sunset Sea than any ship had ever been before. Surely the Storm God had espied our vessel and sought to punish us for overstepping our bounds as men of flesh and blood. Over the course of a day tall dark clouds gathered themselves up along the horizon, like an army, but they didn't direct themselves at us. Their orders were to break themselves upon the sea - fighters in one of the titanic battles the Storm God and the Drowned God wage out in the vastness of the open ocean. The dark storm clouds were a ways off in the distance, but such was the excess of their reach that if we maintained our course we would have been swept up in their chaos."

"But then you saw the Forktail birds!" says little Grygory.

"Yes," says Lord Farwynd, "Forktails. Massive birds, all white and black, beaks as long a man's arm, with a wingspan as almost as wide as our ship was long. And yet as large as they are they still appear slender, their wings tapering down to clean points. We still don't know what land the Forktails come from or which they fly to - while out at sea we never once saw them land to rest in the water, which was just as well. The men feared they might try to attack us if they came to see us as food.

Forktails always fly away from an approaching storm, even those so far they can't be seen. They fly to the westward wind channels, channels that would take us away from the storm's path but also farther away from home. Our supplies were low - we had just barely enough for the return voyage - and if we turned back just then we would have sailed right into the middle of the fight between the two gods. To go on westward would guarantee starvation on the return home, no matter how well we rationed ourselves. With no other option I ordered we press on and follow the Forktails. They'd led us true in the past, and I trusted in their wisdom."

"Then you saw it," says little Grygory.

"Yes," says Lord Farwynd, "the place the people there call the Land of the Dawn. A beautiful place, beaches with soft sand and clear water, verdant forests of tall trees, tracks of rich dark earth, and behind it all a range of faraway mountains that appeared to float among the clouds. Unlike Westeros, where men conquered nature, here in the Land of the Dawn men learned to tame nature: their homes are made of thick branches that grew from the ground all weaved together to form a circular structure, each large enough to shelter a family of ten. At the center of their homes' domed roofs was a small circle where smoke escaped from the hearths within, and these trails of smoke dotted the coast as far as we could see. Their fishing boats, of which there were many, were carved out of a single tree trunk, long enough so that four men could lie down in one and wide enough for two men to sit side by side. The fishermen all looked upon the Red Wynd and it's sailors with curious eyes, and us them. The people of the Dawn have dark skin and black hair and are covered in tattoos and feathery charms, each more strange than the last.

After a time, seeing that we were foreign, they led us to a dock and allowed us to disembark. Their port village was much like any other one sees across the world: there were buildings and streets, parents and children, merchants and artisans, rich and poor, and everything else. But it was as if all those elements were put together in a different way there, and yet, bizarre as they were, they were still all the common things of common folk. People talked, people laughed, people argued, all while looking absurd, as if it were just another day. I can't explain what it's like seeing so much strangeness all at once. That's why you'll have to go see it for yourself."

Little Grygory nods to himself resolutely.

"In that foreign village the local Lord granted us an audience. His hall was grand and made all of a sturdy wood, every inch of it painted or carved with icons of their foreign religion so that it seemed like one single piece of art. Since we couldn't speak his tongue he gave us shelter for a few days until such time that one of his wisemen, a grayhaired man named Quahlo, could teach us enough to treat with him. The Lord's name was Tisquano, or at least this is how he made us known to him, and he took pity on us, for he saw how thin and wretched we were when we first arrived in his village. Because of this he offered us supplies and had his workers make a few repairs to our ship, so that we might return home safely. From his comportment, and that of his people, I took it that they thought of us as some sort of omen, for anytime we passed by them they would stare and speak in hushed tones with one another, quickly forgetting us and passing on to a serious discussion that none of us could follow.

Lord Tisquano told us that we were to return home and inform our countrymen of his land, and that he would do the same with his countrymen. Although Quahlo helped as best as he could, we could only understand bits and pieces. But Lord Tisquano made it clear that there were other kingdoms besides the Land of the Dawn, a kingdom on the plains, a monarchy among the mountains, and an empire of an undying jungle, a jungle that never suffered the cold of winter, a jungle that he said that holds the secret to eternal life. All of these, he said, were kingdoms that would be interested in new peoples to share their gifts with. I promised the good Lord Tisquano I would do as he expected of me. It was the least I could do for ensuring we wouldn't starve on our voyage home."

"When I go to the Land of the Dawn I will find Lord Tisquano," says little Grygory, "and I'll thank him once again for you father."

Lord Farwynd chuckles.

"Lord Tisquano was already an older man when I last saw him, he will surely be dead by the time you make the voyage," says Lord Farwynd.

"Then I will treat with his son," says little Grygory, "he has a son, doesn't he?"

"Oh yes," says Lord Farwynd, "he has four children. Two boys and two girls. His youngest is about your age now I imagine."

"What were their names?" asks little Grygory.

"You know," says Lord Farwynd, "I don't think I can remember. It was so many years ago now and you know I don't have a good ear for names. I suppose you'll have to go and ask them yourself."

Little Grygory smiles and Lord Farwynd is glad to see it.

A FAMILY OF LOWLY SMALLFOLK IS VISITED BY A PAIR OF STRANGERS

The twins Calissa and Leander come running over the hill and back to the farm, yelling excitedly:

"Momma! Poppa!" they cry in unison, "you won't believe what we saw!"

Their mother is in the cottage sewing and their father is out on the field harvesting the last of the wheat with an old scythe. The parents don't pay the twins much mind; the twins often see things that can't be believed. Their eldest brother Lomys however, repairing an old axe by the shed, decides to humor them:

"And what is it this time? A grumkin, or a snark?" says Lomys.

"Strangers!" says Calissa.

This detail gives Lomys pause. It's not often they get travelers this far from the main road - small folk don't have enough coin to make them worth a merchants detour. Most folks head west for the Sunhouse or the town of Cuy around it. Who would come out to this lonely corner of the Reach?

The twins arrive at the door of the shed, panting from the run.

"They were wearing funny clothes," begins Leander, catching his breath.

"Funny how?" asks Lomys.

"Funny all over," says Calissa.

"They're wearing long white and red shirts," says Leander, "and funny blue cloaks-"

"They tied them on crooked," says Calissa, "over their shoulder instead of in the middle, and the cloaks don't go all the way to the ground-"

"- and they're not wearing shoes, they're wearing wood sandals-"

"-and they have funny hair!"

"Yeah! One of them is a girl with long black hair, and the other is shaved bald except for a line of hair on the top of his head-"

"Like a horse's hair!"

"Yeah!"

The twins laugh.

Lomys isn't sure they're playing pretend anymore. This is a little more detail than they can usually come up with.

"Were they coming this way?" he asks.

"I think so," says Calissa, "they saw me and Leander and they pointed to us and waved."

"We thought we should tell momma and poppa that we might have guests coming," says Leander.

Lomys peers into the eyes of his little brother and sister.

"Go inside with momma," says Lomys, "go help her get ready."

The twins run off, shouting to their parents of the two strangers and their amusing appearance. Lomys hammers the last wooden wedge into the axe's head to keep it from jostling about and takes an experimental swing. He brushes his brown hair away from his blue eyes and looks over toward the hill from where the two twins came running but sees no one approaching in the distance. Strangers, so far from the road? Lomys gives a pensive hrmmm. With his eyes still on the hill he walks out to the wheat field to speak with his father.

"Poppa," says Lomys.

"Ah, you fixed the axe," says his father, Cleyton, absentmindedly. Cleyton takes one last swing and then lets the scythe down. There's only a day's worth of wheat left to be reaped and Cleyton looks on at his handiwork, satisfied.

"Yes, the axe ought to work fine now," says Lomys, then: "the twins say there are two strangers coming to our house."

"Two strangers, eh?" says Cleyton, "were they carrying swords or anything like that?"

"I don't know," says Leander, "the twins only said that they wore strange clothes."

His father hrmmms and thinks for a moment.

"Well if they had swords I imagine the twins would have said so," says his father, "you know how they like stories about knights and adventures. I'd imagine a sword would be the first thing they'd look for," Cleyton chuckles.

"Strangers could be dangerous," says Lomys.

"They could be," says his father, "but without swords, with only two of them, I don't imagine they're looking for trouble."

"There could be more of them," says Lomys.

Cleyton arches an eyebrow, notices his sons grip on the axe.

"I suppose so," says his father, "but I don't reckon there are. We're too far out of the way," he takes another pause for thought, "It might be that they're lost, which might explain their strange clothes. You know, the twins have never seen the finery of lords and ladies, maybe that's what they saw? It could be that the strangers are highborn and lost. Maybe they'll reward us handsomely for providing them food and shelter."

Cleyton smiles.

Lomys gives him an incredulous look.

"I suppose we'll have to greet them to see what the case may be," says his father.

Being the man of the house Cleyton returns to the cottage to speak with mother and to prepare to greet the guests. Lomys returns to the stump behind the shed to finish chopping wood with the newly repaired axe. He lines up a block of a wood and splits it cleanly in two, then another and another, until he falls into a rhythm.

Caravans of merchants travel in and out of Cuy, and like wolves following a herd, the bandits are never too far behind. And why wouldn't they wander up here? Bandits have nothing to fear so long as they only steal from the smallfolk instead of the highborn. The smallfolk don't have any guards; all they have are rusty farm scythes and shoddy axes and the meager hope that they don't have anything worth stealing. These and other thoughts wander through Lomys' mind as he works. He tries to set on mind on other things, but there's something in the way the axe splinters wood that won't let him.

When he's finished and gathering up the firewood he spots the two strangers the twins were talking about, coming over the hill now. It's as they said: large blue tunics, something between shirts and dresses, and long heavy blue cloaks with a brown trim that are tied at one shoulder instead of in front. One is a woman with long hair and the other is a man with hair in a line, like a horse. Lomys also sees the things the twins didn't mention: both the travelers have soot black hair and skin the color of burnt umber. He stares for a few moments - he's never seen such people before. As they come closer more details come into focus. The man has a piercing on his lip and tattoos on the side of his face, while the woman has a piercing in her eyebrow and a jade stud under her lips. Both have little loops of gold pierced all up and down their ears and the sight of these causes Lomys to wince in pain as he feels ghosts of the piercings in himself.

As the strangers approach the family cottage his father shouts a greeting to them and the two strangers shout something back in a foreign tongue. At this his father tilts his head in surprise. Lomys' mother, hearing the foreign tongue as well, comes out from the cottage to investigate.

"Cleyton," says his mother to his father, "did you understand that?"

"Not a single word," says Cleyton. He smiles and waves to the strangers.

"Foreigners then," she says.

"I suppose so," says Cleyton , "if they speak foreign they probably are foreign."

"Essosi?" asks his mother, then she answers herself, "not like any Essosi I've ever seen."

"You've seen many Essosi have you?" asks Cleyton playfully.

"You know what I mean," says his mother, "and besides, what are they doing here? There's nothing here but us."

"The Sunhouse is near," says Cleyton.

"There are much finer halls in Westeros for Essosi to visit than the Sunhouse," says his mother.

"Don't speak ill of the Cuys," says Cleyton.

"Or what? They know it just as well as anyone else," says his mother.

The strangers - smiling and in good spirits - approach the couple.

"Niltse," say the two foreigners in unison. They say something else, something lengthy in a sing song sort of language with curious consonants. Lomys stops working and watches them from out on the field. They place a hand over their hearts and then extend their hand to shake. Although their words might be strange the outstretched arm is familiar sight and Lomys' parents shake hands. Lomys espies his little brother and sister also watching their parents, mouths agape, both of them peeking from around a rough hewn corner of the stonework cottage.

The foreigners speak in their foreign tongue and do a lot of pointing and gesturing as they do so. It's not clear what their meaning is; watching them one gets the sense that they might be lost. The smallfolk offer a few conciliatory words, but nothing gets across and so they give sheepish smiles, unsure of what else to offer. The foreigners aren't keen to surrender their attempts at conversation however, and through considerable repetition and play acting a few things manage to get sorted out. The strangers seem to motion to a place far away and they make wide gestures of gratitude and wonder. Names are exchanged: the woman is named Citlali and the man is named Akatzin.

At this point the foreign woman Citlali takes off her pack and rummages through it to retrieve a book, simple and bound in grass colored leather, emblazoned with the image of a sun, or something like it. With book in hand Citlali shows the smallfolk the pages. They contain colorful pictures of people and things, with every picture joined by some foreign writing just underneath. Citlali turns through a few pages, pointing and saying some of the words.

"Ailuikatl," says Citlali. She points to an image of wavy blue lines.

"I think they want us to read it Layla," says Cleyton.

"Well that's no good," says Layla, "the only person in this family who knows his letters is you, and you hardly know them at all."

"Nimitstiatlautia," says Citlali.

Neither Cleyton nor Layla know how to respond, so they smile and nod.

Out by the shed Lomys tosses the last of the firewood to the pile. He keeps the axe on his belt and walks over to hear better. When he nears the cottage Leander and Calissa come out from around the corner and follow behind him, gathering at his legs as they watch the foreigners. At the sight of the twins Citlali and Akatzin smile and make the gentle cooing sounds that all people make toward children. Citlali moves the book so that the pages are clear to the twins. She points to the page, showing a depiction of people shaking hands and says:

"Niltse," she pauses, "inin, Niltse."

The twins look at the page then at her.

"Niltse," repeat the twins.

Citlali smiles and claps her hands together.

"Niltse," says Citlali, and she puts her hand over her heart before extending it to the twins.

"Niltse! Niltse!" say the twins and they take turns shaking her hand excitedly.

A few more games of charades are played and a few more images from the book are excitedly pointed to but this yields little in the form of communication. Not all of the pictures are quite so straightforward, and they all appear to be depicted in such a strange style, besides. Cleyton however, always the gentle patriarch, manages to convey an invitation to the foreigners for supper. Layla sets to work serving the stew while Cleyton and the twins entertain the strangers with a brief tour of the inside of their modest home.

Lomys is absorbed in watching the mannerisms of the strangers. The two of them inspect the cottage with a mix of squinty-eyed curiosity and genuine surprise. Citlali makes it a point to touch nothing and only moves her head about the objects of her curiosity, like a bird, while Akatzin seems more than happy to poke or tap on things to test their strength.

The twins follow Citlali around, picking things up and showing them to her.

"Boots!" says Calissa, holding up her father's shoes.

"Euateuatl," says Citlali.

"These are boots!" says Calissa again.

"Bootuh," says Citlali.

The twins laugh.

Once Akatzin is done examining the stew pot he steps aside to peer out the window. Layla takes the opportunity to begin serving supper and ladles the rabbit stew into eight bowls. At this the strangers cease their meandering to watch the food be served. They become suddenly very hesitant about all their movements; Cleyton must persuade them to be seated with a few more sweeping motions. After that's done Layla serves the bowls to the family. Akatzin and Citlali wait for the family to begin eating before they deign to pick up their spoons. Once they do however they only glimpse at the food before wolfing it down, holding the bowls up to their mouths to hasten the process, finishing their meal before the family has time to start. Afterward they sit politely, occasionally muttering a few phrases to one another while pointing to this or that as the family eats supper.

Now that he's seated close to the strangers, Lomys takes note of their foreign features. Both have high cheekbones and hawk like noses. He searches for Citlali's eyes and when their gazes meet for a moment he notices they're the green of fresh grass shoots.

"Well, this will certainly be worth telling people about when we go into town," says Layla, "we're entertaining Essosi!"

"I don't think these are Essosi," says Cleyton.

"Oh, so now you know about Essosi eh?" asks Layla.

"Essosi don't wear cloaks," says Cleyton, "it's warm in Essos."

"They have winter in Essos too you old fool," says Layla.

"Let's not fight in front of our guests," says Cleyton. He smiles at the foreigners.

"It's not like they can understand us," says Layla.

"They can hear the tone of it," says Cleyton.

"If they're from Essos, what are they doing here?" asks Lomys.

"Maybe they're lost," says Calissa.

"Can they stay with us?" asks Leander.

This question doesn't end up needing an answer, as after supper the foreigners bow in gratitude and make their way to the door. They perform another series of charades and then Citlalti presents the family with the book they showed them before, as a gift. The twins reach for it eagerly, their eyes wide with surprise, and they look to their parents to see if they can take it. Their father cannot refuse his children such a gift and he nods to give his permission. Once it's in their hands the twins look back at Citlali with astonishment. Only the oldest son arches an eyebrow. The twins flip it open to begin poring over it but before they can do so Citlali places a hand on the pages to stop them. She points to one page in particular. It contains a simple picture of two people with one walking away from the other while looking back and waving.

"Aneh," says Citlali.

"Aneh!" say the twins in unison.

With this the strangers depart.

LOMYS ENDEAVORS TO BE RID OF THE BOOK

As the hour is late, Cleyton puts the book on a high shelf to save his children from the insomnia of curiosity. It can be dealt with in the morning.

Early in that morning, just before the dawn light peeks over the horizon, Lomys lies awake and begins to wonder if the book is cursed. What sort of person goes out and gives away a book of gibberish? Books are lordly things, Maesterly things - things, in other words, coveted and owned by people with means. From his straw bed, Lomys looks out the doorway of his chilly room into the main room of his family's cottage. The book sits on a shelf just out of sight. He imagines it's dimensions in his mind now: a hand and a half in length and height, tough leather binding - in green! - and that odd circular insignia.

Lomys decides he needs to read the book, to know what the foreigners know and, possibly, what they intend. For the sake of protection.

He rises slowly from the straw so as to avoid creating too much noise. If the twins hear him wake up they'll whine to see it - like they did when his father brought them sugared plums - loud enough that their parents will wake up. Then it'll be straight to chores. Once up from his bed he sneaks through the quiet cottage to the shelf but finds the book missing. He notices also that the twins are missing from their beds. His eyes adjust to the dawn twilight and he spots them sitting on the floor, looking over the book in silence.

Lomys tip toes to them and they speak in whispers to avoid waking their parents. They pull the book away from Lomys at first, but they're happy to tell him what they've discovered. Leander tells him that the book is lighter than it looks at first; that the cover, while colored in the green of weeping tree leaves, smells strangely of dirt; that the pages are thick and tough, and, are difficult to tear or wrinkle, although he promises he hasn't tried it. Calissa tells him the cover has a picture of either a sun or a ring, or maybe it's both; that while the pictures don't seem to tell a story they have colors like bright flowers; that Leander licked one of the pages to see if it tasted like anything even though she told him not to. This triggers the beginning of a fight between the twins and to head it off Lomys suggests they all go outside so they might have better light to see with.

Being the older brother, as soon as they step outside Lomys plucks the book up out of the twins' hands. They draw in their breaths to protest but Lomys puts his finger to his lips and then motions to their parents room. For a moment he's not sure if they'll protest anyway, but they're getting older now and they're getting chores now too. They also don't want to start the day early.

Seated at the east wall of their cottage, Lomys opens the book to first few pages. He recognizes the pictures Citlali pointed out before, the ones with the people shaking hands and the people parting ways. There are a few more pictures in this vein, pictures of folks talking, gathering, laughing, crying, and the other various gestures of humanity. Lomys notices that all the people depicted have umber skin like the strangers had, and styles of hair even more strange.

"Jump ahead," says Leander, "these pictures are the boring ones."

"And they don't have as many colors either," says Calissa.

Lomys does as they say and stumbles onto depictions of flowers. They float amongst the blank whiteness on the page as if suspended in the air. Bright blues, deep greens, and ruby reds give the sense that these flowers might still be alive.

"I've never seen flowers like these," says Lomys.

"Me neither," says Calissa, "do you think they're real?"

"Of course not," says Leander, "they're just pictures."

"They might be real," says Calissa, "right Lomys?"

"They might be," says Lomys. He touches the page and feels only the paper. This ink cannot be felt with fingers.

"They might be from somewhere far away," mutters Lomys.

"Maybe that's what the flowers are like where they're from," says Calissa.

"Maybe," says Leander, "anyway. Look at this Lomys."

Leander flips a few more pages ahead and opens to two adjacent pages, each with a picture of a head and shoulders, of a man on one and a woman on the other. Unlike the previous images of people, which were stylized depictions, these are truer to life. Both of them show a number of piercings: the man has pierced ears in the low spot where one would expect but also in three other spots up along his ears, as well as rings pierced into his lips and a ring around the nose like a bull. The woman has only a single ear piercing that appears to leave a hole out of the skin of her earlobes, large enough to fit a finger through, ring piercings along her eyebrows, and a single jade stud in the space between her lips and her chin.

"Turn the page," says Calissa, squirming, "I don't like these."

"They look like they must hurt!" says Leander, teasing.

"Turn the page!" says Calissa. She's turned her head away but can't keep herself from peeking.

Lomys turns the page a few more times, skipping images of other piercings and curious scars along the head and body, and finds images of a naked man covered in strange tattoos.

"The naked pictures!" says Calissa.

"Oh they're not a big deal," says Leander, "look, this one has a falcon on his shoulder."

Lomys closes the book.

"This book isn't for children," says Lomys.

"Why?!," say the twins in unison.

"Those pictures are immoral," says Lomys.

"Not at all the pictures are like those ones!" says Calissa.

"Yeah!" says Leander, "besides, we looked at all the pictures already, it's not like we don't know what they look like!"

"Well then I guess you don't need the book anymore then do you?" says Lomys.

Leander goes to protest but realizes the admission he's made. Calissa realizes it too and gives her twin brother a mean look.

"Go play somewhere else," says Lomys and he shoos them away.

The twins make a couple of minor protests but in the end they give into their older brother's command. They wander off to pester the chickens, leaving Lomys the east wall of their family cottage clear and to himself. He opens the book once more to the pictured of the tattooed man. He's heard of how barbarians like the Dothraki tattoo themselves, but he never thought such markings could be as intricate as this. The patterns on the man's skin appear in all sorts of strange geometric patterns, containing fine details which Lomys imagines must be difficult to make. Strange patterns runs up and down the man's body, out to his arms and legs and up onto his head, asymmetrical and confusing. On the next page there is a woman, naked and tattooed as well, but her tattoos appear to be more orderly and focused on symmetry, so that a line could be drawn right down the middle of her and get mirror images on either side. Lomys marvels at seeing so much of her and her brown skin. His mind wanders to Citlali and for a moment he wonders if she has tattoos like these.

Lomys shakes his head. He turns more pages and finds more bewildering things: fruits and vegetables of unknown origin, beasts and birds unlike anything he's known, a collection of clothing as fine as it is ludicrous. Curiosity is in full control of him now and Lomys finds himself turning the pages faster than his eyes can decipher their meaning. Buildings of strange make and material, sharp cruel-looking objects that must be weapons, and intricate jewelry made of thin gold and precious stones. Near the end he finds a recreation of the image on the cover. This time however it makes up the center of a line of images - a progression that shows the sun slowly being eaten away by darkness, like a waxing moon, until it's a black circle with a red ring of flames. The pictures that follow this image are ominous: rotting food, starving people, dead livestock, bloody combat, and always in the sky that same black sun.

Cursed, decides Lomys; foreigners working on behalf of the Stranger. Foreign warlocks hoping to conjure trouble.

From inside the cottage he hears something stir. Now aware of his chances of being caught, he sneaks back into the cottage and places the book back on the shelf. He slips outside without letting the wood floor creak. Hopefully when his parents look through it and see the black sun they'll agree with him about the book. Lomys goes out to find the twins already going about feeding the chickens

In the evenings Cleyton likes to whittle while seated on an old stump at the edge of the family's plot of land. From that spot one can look to the north and see the rolling green hills give way to the lush plains of the Reach, or to the east where the dry foothills of the Red Mountains begin. Together these provide a vast frame for watching the tall clouds drift by and the cool wind work across the grass in waves like water. As Lomys approaches his father he can see that this time he's whittling a little figurine, in the shape of one of the foreigners, with a cloak tied at one shoulder. Lomys doesn't take this is as the best of signs. For his whole life Cleyton has been a soft hearted man and Lomys can easily imagine his father insisting on keeping the book, for sentimental purposes.

"Poppa," says Lomys.

"Good evening son," says Cleyton.

"Poppa, I started looking through the book those foreigners gave us-"

"Citlali and, what was it? Akatzin," says Cleyton.

"Yes," says Lomys, "have you seen the pictures toward the end? Of the black sun?"

"I have," says Cleyton, "it's probably some foreign fairy tale I imagine."

"Poppa...," begins Lomys, "strange people with strange books, couldn't it be...couldn't they be...warlocks? Witches? Something like that?"

"I would have thought you too old to believe in witches," chuckles Cleyton.

"You know what I mean," says Lomys, "this could be a dangerous book they've given us."

"Then why would they give it to us?" asks his father, "if it's dangerous to use they wouldn't entrust it to strangers, and if it's cursed I think we'd have known by now. Besides, it's not like we're going to keep it."

"We're not?"

His father shaves off some of the excess wood around the figure's head so that its hair resembles a horse's mane.

"No, your mother made the good point that it won't do us any good. After all, what use is a book in a language we don't even speak? I couldn't disagree with her. Better to sell it, get you kids something warm for when winter comes."

Lomys smiles in relief, but hides it after a moment.

"I would have preferred to keep it though," says his father, "we don't really have anything to pass down, and it's a pretty thing. Could've made for a family heirloom."

Satisfied that he needn't do any more persuading Lomys bids his father a good evening and heads back into the cottage. The smell of a root vegetable stew fills the air, mixing with the smell of the burnt wood from the fire. He says good evening to his mother, who tells him to prepare the table. The book sits up on the shelf. He's glad that his family will be rid of it. He would have preferred burning of course; fire is cleansing, and he's got no doubt that that's exactly what's needed now. Selling it works out much better though, if he's honest with himself. The family's blankets are modes, thin, and in need of replacement. A silver stag or two would go a long way this coming winter.

THE LORD OF STARFALL HOSTS A FOREIGN DELEGATION

Early one morning a large foreign ship is espied by riders on patrol, out along the southwestern coast of Dorne. The pace of the foreign ship suggests that it will reach Castle Starfall, up north near the Torrentine's delta, in a few days. The riders decide to send a raven to make House Dayne aware of these foreigners - they must be foreigners, nothing else can explain the strange make of their curious swan ships - and to announce the coming of outriders who will give a more detailed report of this strange vessel.

Their raven flies north along the coast riding the warm thermals rising up from the dry Dornish landscape. Once in the ravenry of Castle Starfall the raven surrenders it's message to Maester Cidrio, who in turn delivers it to the high tower of Allyria Dayne. But the words make no lasting impression on the stewardess of House Dayne. She thinks to herself: if the ship is foreign then that means they aren't from the Sunspear. If they're not from Sunspear then they can't be from Prince Doran, which means it has nothing to do with her cousin Gerold Dayne, the Darkstar. And that is what's important.

So the raven's message goes unremarked upon.

One morning a few days later, up in the same southward facing tower, Lady Allyria looks out toward the Torrentine's Bay. From her pale stone window frame she can make out the line in the bay where the freshwater of the Torrentine meets the saltwater of the Sunset Sea and the color of the waves change from a clean blue to murky azure. Out on the blueness a few merchant ships float idly under the pleasant morning sun and in the distance a few of House Dayne's own galley's patrol the waters. In the farther distance she can see the shape of a large ship approaching. She thinks about the message from the outriders again. Essosi traders most likely, supposes Allyria of the foreign ships, men from the Free Cities looking for a market. Ser Darrion Brownstone would best be suited in dealing with them - his dark skin seems to put Essosi at ease - and Maester Cidrio, fluent in eight languages, will accompany him to make sure that there are no misunderstandings. A simple matter. By the time her lady's maids come to her room to dress her she's already forgotten about the approaching vessel. As she looks at herself in the mirror with her violet blue eyes, smoothes her honey brown hair, and adjusts her lavender dress, she remembers only that she needn't be worried about them.

When the outriders finally arrive at Castle Starfall later that day they make a tremendous amount of noise. From inside the feast hall where Allyria lunching with her nephew Edric Dayne, the young Lord of Starfall, she can hear the faint sounds of shouting in the distance as the castle's guardsmen search for Ser Brownstone. Allyria's ear perk up but she doesn't let it bother her - Ser Brownstone will make her aware of whatever she needs to be made aware of. Edric for his part seems not to hear the shouting, or if he does, he ignores it. The yellowed haired young boy has ignored a lot of things ever since he returned from the north.

After lunch and after the commotion dies down Ser Brownstone finds Allyria in one of the hallways of Starfall and says to her:

"My Lady, you must speak to the outriders. The Maester and the little Lord should speak to them as well."

"What's the matter?" asks Allyria.

"It would be easier if you simply heard the men out yourself my Lady," says Ser Brownstone.

Lady Allyria, stewardess of Starfall until young Edric comes of age, summons a gathering in the Lord's solar to hear the rider's report. The solar is made of pale stone, like all of Starfall, shined so that the light that comes in from the grand glass windows reflects off of angled walls and illuminates the room. Allyria and little Lord Edric sit at the head of the room as if they were king and queen while Maester Cidrio and Ser Brownstone stand on either sides of them, ready to offer counsel. Along the left side of the room on a raised platform a few representatives of the other noble families of Starfall gather together with a bland curiosity to see what the business in the royal court will be today.

The guardsmen sent as outriders enter the solar with the regular fanfare. Ser Brownstone introduces them, the two men approach the stewardess and the little Lord and they bend the knee. They are asked to give their report and so they begin describing what they saw:

A ship made of a light colored wood - almost yellowish - painted in clean streaks of green, red, black, and white, with a number of oddly stylized glyphs of flowers or perhaps animals carved into it's sides. The vessel is massive - three times as long as one of House Dayne's war galley's, at least - consisting of four tall masts flying flags in the shape of triangles, points flapping in the wind. Each triangle bears a curious and colorful herald of unknown origin: one of three red and green lines, one of four black and white feathers, and one of a strange yellow cross. At the ship's bow, carved out of jade, is a figurehead in the shape of a woman in a dress wearing gold jewelry, her two arms stretched up in front of her as if offering a gift. All in all a strange thing to behold, as vibrant as it was alien.

"I can't say I've ever heard of banners such as those..." says Maester Cidrio ponderously. The wrinkles in his face seem to deepen and his gray brows furrow as he peers into the distance and thinks. He leans back a little and the rings of his Maester's chain clink together.

"Some creative sellswords then," offers Lady Allyria.

"Not just sellswords my lady. Our outriders here are describing carracks - swan ships, like the ones from the Summer Isles - vessels that are beyond the monetary reach of common sellswords," says Maester Cidrio. Then turning back to the riders, "and, you say you saw one with four masts? Hah! That's- hah, well, that's..."

A brief silence falls over the Lord's solar.

"Are you sure this is what you saw?" asks Cidrio of the two riders.

The men nod.

Maester Cidrio thinks a while longer. Allyria can see the copper ring that signifies a mastery of history jingle about his chain. A back and forth between caution and curiosity plays across the old man's face as he ponders the riders' report.

"So the ship is big," says Ser Brownstone, "which means the owners are dangerous."

"Or simply rich. That's the real question isn't it? Are they trading vessels or warships?" asks Allyria. This question is addressed to Brownstone and the Maester, but also to the two riders.

"I saw no catapults or archers posted at their rails milady," says one of the riders, a gruff dark skinned sandy Dornishman, "but I saw a good number of men on board the vessel."

"Men and women, milady," says the other rider, this one an olive skinned salty Dornishman.

"The presence of women doesn't necessarily mean anything," says Ser Brownstone, "the Sand Snakes are women."

"It could just as easily be that the women are traders," says Maester Cidrio.

Another contemplative pause.

"What else did you see?" asks Allyria of the outriders.

"The first riders who spotted the ships said there were two of them, milady," says the dark-skinned sandy Dornishman, "and some local fishermen say that they saw those two ships as well as one other, farther out from shore some days ago."

"So there are three ships then?" asks Ser Brownstone.

"Yes milord," says the olive-skinned salty Dornishman, "the one approaching Castle Starfall was the largest of the three, but no one along our coasts knows where the other two went."

"Where the other ships four-masted vessels as well?" asks Maester Cidrio.

"No Maester," says the salty Dornishman, "the fisherman say the others were just three masted."

"Still impressive," says Cidrio.

"Thank you for your report," says Lady Allyria. With the slightest of nods she bids them farewell. At this signal the riders bow their heads then turn and exit the lord's solar.

"Shall I rally the riders my lady?" asks Ser Brownstone. "We will want to take precautions in case this four-masted ship is unfriendly."

"We can send an entourage to meet with them but I don't think we need to rally anything. Even if they have a larger ship, we still have our galleys, as well as riders along the coast. I can't imagine they'll want to start trouble with just their one ship," says Allyria.

"Their three ships, my lady," corrects Ser Brownstone.

"Only one of which has entered the bay," says Allyria, "the others aren't our concern, at least not immediately."

"No they wouldn't risk a fight, especially not with a ship of such expensive make," says Maester Cidrio, more to himself than to the court, "a four masted ship is, well - I would need to alert the Citadel. This would be the first sighting of such a thing since the time of Old Valyria! This could be historic, if it's true."

"We should still plan for the worst," says Ser Brownstone, perplexed by the old Maester's curious new energy, "I don't know if I enjoy the idea of facing an historic enemy."

Allyria is about to open her mouth to speak but becomes aware suddenly that her nephew hasn't yet said a single thing.

"Perhaps we ought to hear what the Lord of Starfall has to say," says Lady Allyria.

She looks over to her left where her nephew Edric Dayne sits on the pale stone throne of Starfall. Two and ten years and only just returned to her from his wanderings in the north. But after his fanciful accounts of a resurrected Beric Dondarrion and a fugitive Arya Stark - stories no one really believed - he wouldn't speak any more about his time as a squire. Or about anything at all. The boy is not morose or moping, he's simply silent. At first Allyria could understand the tendency - the life of a squire can sometimes lead young boys to sights of carnage - but it's been four months since his return and he remains just as taciturn as when he first arrived. Allyria's made it a point to defer to his judgement on matters before the council both as his due as Lord, but also to try and draw him out. It doesn't usually work. The boy always goes along with what the council decides with a silent nod of the head and he hardly ever inquires about the reasoning behind the choices made.

Now, however- now she can see his dark blue eyes looking up from their favorite spot on the floor and watching the two riders walking out of the solar. His pale yellow hair almost looks unsettled, wild, as if he'd only just woken up. Like Maester Cidrio he also stares into the far distance of thought.

"They're foreigners?" asks Lord Edric Dayne.

Maester Cidrio, still lost in thought, mouths the word four.

"I believe they are, aren't they Maester?" asks Lady Allyria.

"Hmm? Ah, yes, of course, they'd have to be," says Cidrio, "whoever could finance such a feat of shipbuilding would need to be some foreign nobility or city-state. Someone with a shipyard, someone who employs highly skilled craftsmen. I suppose they could have commandeered the ship but considering what armaments carracks tend to have, that seems unlikely."

Edric thinks for a moment.

"Emissaries ought to be well received by the lord of the castle, so as to avoid any undue misunderstandings," says Edric.

Up on the platform where the nobles of Starfall watch there comes a wave of murmuring. Many of them haven't heard Edric speak since his return.

"A wise decision my Lord," says Ser Brownstone with no small amount of surprise, "but perhaps it would be best if I spoke to them on your behalf."

"I would agree with Ser Brownstone," says Lady Allyria. Also surprised to hear her nephew speak, she begins slowly, "...he's a reliable hand in diplomacy and I'm sure he's up to the task." The boy is too young for this sort of thing, Allyria thinks to herself. It's wonderful that he seems engaged for once, but why this of all things?

"Ser Brownstone will escort me," says Edric, "should the Lord of Starfall ask for counsel from his head military man, he will ask for it."

Allyria, a little surprised to see her shy nephew speak with such authority, lets the matter lie. Perhaps the time has come to let him make his own decisions.

Messengers are sent ahead to inform the guards at the docks that they should prepare for the arrival of their Lord. Edric rides off with Ser Brownstone, Maester Cidrio, and thirty fighters, all on horseback headed down toward the docks of Starfall. Lady Allyria watches them leave from atop the Palestone Sword, the tallest of Starfall's towers, and can see their horses kick up dust as they shrink with distance. Out past them toward the the bay she can see the foreign ship approaching from the opposite direction. The four masted ship is impressive to behold even at this distance - it dwarfs the fishing boats of the smallfolk and it looks like it wouldn't have much trouble against her House's war galleys.

All around the dock she can see the smallfolk congregating, a jumbling mass of dark silhouettes, gathering around the water to gawk at the incoming arrivals. As the ship pulls into the harbor the sails are pulled up and its figurehead, the woman offering a gift, eases alongside one of the long wooden docks.

What would foreigners want with Starfall?, Allyria asks herself. It could be that they're on their way to Oldtown or the Citadel and simply got lost. But if they the have knowledge to make a four masted ship, how could they not have maps? They might be far flung travelers from distant Essosi lands, one of the more remote and enterprising Free Cities, perhaps. If that's the case then it's good that Edric went to go see them - they may be diplomats, and House Dayne cannot afford to be turning away diplomats. Allyria turns away from the window and sends for the kitchens to prepare a feast fit for a delegation of nobles. She makes it clear to the servants that they're to slaughter the fattest heifer, to use the good virgin olive oil, and to uncork some of the dark Dornish vintage, the kind that's thick as blood and sweet to the taste.

The maids and the cooks set to work but Allyria doesn't go down to the feast hall or the kitchens to oversee them. Many of the servants have been around since back when Alistaire and Arthur and Ashara were still alive, back when Allyria - youngest of the four - would wander through the kitchens helping Old Meria, the head cook, with whatever needed doing, back before the whirlwind years of Robert's Rebellion, before she knew how to tie a noose. The bustle of the kitchens is too much of a reminder, and so instead she remains in her high tower where she can be alone with her thoughts. Edric lives on and he must have a caretaker, and while Ser Brownstone and Maester Cidrio are good men, they are not the same as blood family. And there is no chance that the Darkstar will be able to shape him, not if she has anything to say about it.

Allyria touches the necklace about her shoulders, the Lodestar: a slender chain holding a mount made of the same fallen star-stuff as the greatsword Dawn, holding in place a flawless diamond the size of a grape. The metal of it is pale and has an almost translucent quality, like a kind of ephemeral ivory, furthering the illusion that the necklace is holding a fallen star, the herald of her House. Borne by the women of House Dayne, the Lodestar is meant to represent a woman's place as a man's heart, the moral Lodestar by which he orients his life.

It's late afternoon when the Lord of Starfall departs and evening when Edric and his entourage return. Once the cooks and maids are set on their way she goes back up to the Palestone Sword to see if she can see the men approaching. The reason for their lateness becomes clear: the foreigners all come on foot. In two lines they march, soldiers with dark brown skin wearing feathered helms, red and green cloaks, and leather-like armor, twenty in each row. Between the two rows walk two others, these dressed in blue cloaks. Around them ride House Dayne's men and leading the entire procession is Ser Brownstone, Maester Cidrio and Lord Edric. Allyria sees them approach the castle gates and Ser Brownstone rides up to signal the guards to let them in.

Only the two foreigners dressed in blue, bringing curious leather packs, accept the invitation to dinner; the others stay outside in the castle courtyard, eating supplies they brought and setting up some simple tents as if they were bivouacking out in the wilderness.

The two ambassadors - a man named Yaotzin and a woman named Iyali - make an interesting sight, seated there at the long feast table with the bannermen of castle Starfall. Master Cidrio tried talking to them in each of the eight languages he knows but it was only after he was done trying that they simply pointed to themselves and sounded out their names. Maester Cidrio, hungry to sate his curiosity, followed them throughout the castle proper as Ser Brownstone lead them to the dining hall, pestering them with questions and switching between languages when he did so. Allyria couldn't keep up with his line of questioning but could tell he was getting nowhere. The two foreigners handled his pestering with grace, and seemed somehow accustomed to dealing with this sort of communication barrier.

Yaotzin, a man with skin like a Sandy Dornishman but with cheekbones that place his ancestry elsewhere, has long fine black hair that is pulled back into a simple knot so that the tattoos on his face are clear for all to see. In black ink, a stylized pattern, meant to be a fire perhaps, reaches up the side of his face and up to his left eye. Square gold earrings with abstract animal designs adorn his ears and their weight makes his earlobes droop a little. Presently Yaotzin sits at the table with his arms at his sides. The three gold rings on his brows rise slightly as he smiles to people who meet his gaze.

Iyali is lighter than her partner but her hair is just as black, although she wears hers loose around her shoulders. She has no tattoos on her face but she does have a jade stud in the spot between her lips and her chin as well as small gold piercings all up and down her ears. As Iyali turns her head back and forth, taking in the surroundings of the feast hall, Allyria can see black ink etched into the back of her neck, a tattoo that disappears under the collar of her tunic. Like Yaotzin, Iyali makes sure to smile when she catches someone's eye.

As the feast is brought in by the serving maids House Dayne's banner men chat and speculate about the origin of the foreigners. Although Maester Cidrio tries to explain the various reasons the foreigners aren't Yi Ti - chief among them being that Yi Ti is one of the eight languages he has under his belt and the foreigners don't recognize it - the theory that they're Yi Ti takes hold of the hall anyway. After all, what else could they be? The great houses of Westeros don't sail such ships, and neither do the Free Cities. The Summer Islanders and the merchants of Qarth make trips out this way every now and again, but they usually head to the Citadel if they're heading anywhere. That leaves only Yi Ti. And really, it makes sense: if anyone has the coin and the expertise to sail all across the world it would be the Golden Empire of Yi Ti, where - as stories go - the royalty dine on exotic fish spiced with silver and jade. At this reminder of wealth everyone in the hall becomes a bit more friendly toward their guests. Ser Brownstone notes that even the foreigner's soldiers, common guardsmen presumably, wore gold rings on their faces and fingers openly, in the style of one accustomed to wealth. The other bannermen agree: the captain of the foreigner's little force wears feathers on his helm that have the color and glint of emeralds, and that may be made of same. And did you notice their weapons? Sturdy wooden planks like elongated oars, lined with razor sharp rectangular shards of dragonglass all around the edges. Curved wooden bludgeons that resemble the fang of some massive beast that hold in place a hunk of a strange type of dragonglass - a type that catches the light at certain angles to reveal gold flakes just under its glassy surface. They are brutal and beautiful things to behold.

One of the bannermen, a contemplative sort with a small territory on the coast, wonders aloud if there might be islands out there on the Sunset Sea. Like the Summer Isles but farther away or perhaps even maybe another Sothoryos or Uthryos, given the size of their ships. No one pays him any mind - they're too busy wondering how the foreigners could carve dragonglass with into such sharp clean lines.

Lord Edric Dayne doesn't take part in these discussions but he watches his guests intently from the head of the table. In the boys eyes Allyria can see wonder and awe and she is reminded suddenly of the giggly young boy he was only a few years before. After a moment Lord Edric raises his goblet to toast. Ser Brownstone notices this and follows suit immediately. Allyria raises hers as well, uncertain, and Maester Cidrio raises his a few moments after returning from his ponderings. Ser Brownstone taps his goblet to get the attention of the bannermen. Their muttering settles down and all their cups rise up, so that after a few moments Yaotzin and Iyali look out at the hall, then at each other, then pick up the wine goblets before them and raise them in imitation.

"To our guests," says Lord Edric Dayne, "whoever they may be."

The bannermen have a laugh and repeat: "to our guests!"

And so the eating beings in earnest.

Both Yaotzin and Iyali watch their hosts use knives and forks at first and struggle to imitate the motions with their own hands. As they are the guests they're seated near the head of the table along with Lord Dayne and his close advisors. Maester Cidrio and young Edric can hardly take their eyes off the strangers, marvelling at the way they try to put the basics of fine dining together. Ser Brownstone, seemingly aware of the strangeness of the situation gives Allyria a wry look. Allyria, filled with a sense of surreality as she sits across the table from some tattooed foreigner from half a world away, doesn't notice him.

Yaotzin has trouble figuring whether he wants to have his fork in the left hand or the right, while Iyali stabs into her serving of pork with an elbow high into the air. She looks around to watch her hosts' response to this. Some of the bannermen chuckle to see her struggling, and Iyali takes this as a sign to pull the fork out and try again.

"Like this," says Edric. He holds up his knife and fork and demonstrates how the tines should face down and hold the meat while the knife cuts. Yaotzin gets the hang of it and places a piece of duck into his mouth. He gives a bemused look at the taste but chews happily and swallows, making a show of enjoying the food.

Well mannered, if a bit odd, Allyria thinks to herself.

When the feast concludes Allyria thanks her bannerman and asks that the council of House Dayne be left to confer with the emissaries. Once the servants - wide eyed at the strangers - clear the table Iyali says something and reaches into her bag. She reveals a green book with the image of a sun on it's cover.

"Ah yes, they showed us this book when we first met them at the dock" says Maester Cidrio to Edric, "I think you will be as pleased as I to gaze upon it my Lord."

Iyali opens it to reveal two images. On one page is a picture of two people, with one giving the other a bushel of some exotic plant. On the other the recipient of the bushel has their hand placed on the giver's shoulder and has their head inclined in a nod.

"Tlasohkamati," says Iyali. She and Yaotzin bows their heads like the person in the picture.

"You're welcome," says Edric, smiling in recognition of their gratitude.

With the aid of the book and some clever charades the foreigners begin communicating in earnest. They use their book to show that they're from somewhere far away, pointing to pictures and saying their foreign words. First they point to an image of an ornate circle that is some sort of compass. Iyali points from it's eastern side to it's western side. Then an image of a dock or harbor, a ship like the one they sailed in on, then an image of a coast, then a sea, then a coast again.

"Incredible," says Maester Cidrio.

"So they sailed across the Sunset Sea?" asks Ser Brownstone, "so then - then that would make them Yi Ti!"

"Where you paying no attention at all Darrion?," asks Maester Cidrio, "I studied that distant kingdom at the Citadel. These two don't hail from Yi Ti, or if they do, they're from some region never mentioned before. No. These people are something else."

"Could they be from Sothoryos or Ulthos?" offers Allyria. The words feel strange to hear aloud. Sothoryos or Ulthos are realms talked about only in stories, never in politics. But Allyria recalls the lone bannerman's musings, and now they no longer seem so far flung.

"No," says Edric, "they said they were from the west, those are to the south."

"They might have gotten turned around," says Ser Brownstone, "it's not such a difficult thing to do at sea."

"If they have the expertise to build four masted ships then they certainly have the expertise to draft star charts or other maps," says Maester Cidrio, "otherwise - well, otherwise it would be as if they invented a cart with square wheels. It wouldn't make any sense."

"So there are lands to the west of Westeros? Is that what we're meant to believe?" asks Allyria.

Yaotzin says something to Iyali and Iyali begins to search through the book for something in particular.

"There have been stories," says Maester Cidrio, "though none of them seriously believed."

"What do the stories say?" asks Edric.

Iyali opens the book to pictures of two people dressed in blue like Yaotzin and herself. She smooths out the pages. These people in blue appear to be walking on a journey upon which they encounter another pair of people, dressed in curious leather pants and painted in streaks of red and yellow and white. The council of House Dayne is unsure what to make of this.

"The stories," begins Maester Cidrio, distracted by the images, "say that there is a land on the other side of the Sunset Sea, a land where there is no winter and no death." He ponders the pictures in the book for a moment, "But these are the rumors of sailors - sailors who, I will remind the assembled, also believe in merlings and kraken."

Iyali opens to another pair of pictures, one of a lush green forest with strange plants and the other a city, with great stone roads and stone buildings of a bizarre architecture.

"The sailors might be right," says Edric, "there are strange things in the world."

THE STRANGERS SEEK KNOWLEDGE OF THE REACH

This time they arrive in the morning just after breakfast and they bring with them large sheets of something like dark tough parchment, along with quills and ink. The rest of the family is just beginning to work the chores as the twins go out to greet the foreigners, shouting niltse! The foreigners smile and laugh and respond in kind. The rest of the family watches the twins as they go out and play charades, point to the cloaks of the foreigners, asking if they can touch them. Citlali is happy to oblige them, but Akatzin appears protective of his clean blue cloak. Once they've exchanged smiles with the twins, the foreigners walk to the cottage. Another round of charades is played during which Lomys' family gathers that the foreigners are asking about the book.

"I'm glad we haven't gotten rid of it just yet," says Cleyton, "we'd have looked ungrateful. Lomys, fetch the book."

Despite himself, Lomys does as he's told.

With book in hand Citlali opens to a few pages. One is of a landscape, a valley with some mountains in the background and the next is of a large piece of parchment like the two strangers have with them, and the last is of a man in the center of a circle of people, all of which are bowing their heads to him. Citali then makes a few motions with her hands, first of a mouth talking, then putting it up to her ear as if to listen, then finally making writing motions in the air. As she does each of these she says and repeats a certain word, presumably whatever the word for that action is in their own language.

"They want us to answer questions," says Leander.

"They want to draw a map!" says Calissa.

"You two catch on quick," says Cleyton, happy to see such sharp wits in his children.

"We don't have any maps for them to draw from," says Layla.

"I could draw them a map," says Cleyton, "at least for everything from Cuy to the Red Mountains. I once saw a map of all of Westeros too, I don't know if I could do it all from memory, but it'd be better than nothing."

"Should we be giving foreigner maps of our lands?" asks Lomys.

"Son, I don't know why you're so suspicious," says Cleyton, "I thought I taught you something about guest right."

"I don't think they know what guest right is," says Lomys.

"Maybe," says Cleyton, "but considering they gave us a gift, I imagine they have something similar wherever they're from. Besides, if I draw them a map they might wander off and visit with someone else."

"Is that why they're coming to us?" asks Layla, "for directions?"

Lomys is glad to see that at least his mother has some healthy skepticism.

"Makes sense to me," says Cleyton, "if you were a foreigner in a foreign land you'd probably need help finding your way around."

But poppa is too trusting, Lomys thinks to himself.

A few more charades are played out. Cleyton communicates that he can draw them a map if they allow him to use the quill. Citlali and Akatzin agree, and everyone heads inside to the dinner table to watch Cleyton set out what he knows of Westeros. Normally Lomys and the twins are tasked with regular farm work when the adults discuss matters, but their mother allows them to stay and watch their father work with ink and parchment as if he were a highborn.

The quill the foreigners provide is made of a feather of a bird none of the family's ever seen before, a thin and elegant pine-green-colored feather that shimmers slightly in the light. To the surprise of the smallfolk family their patriarch knows how to grip the quill with his fore finger and thumb and how to draw smooth clean lines with the confidence of a master. The foreigners look on with interest, occasionally nodding to themselves, as if Cleyton's drawing confirms some of their own geographic suspicions.

First Cleyton draws where the cottage is, right in the center of the map. To the north he draws the foothills of the Red Mountains and then the Red Mountains themselves as he makes his way up the map toward the northeast. To the direct east he draws the narrow bay that is fed by the Torrentine, the river that cuts into the mountain range, and on the other side of it he draws the shore of Dorne. There he places a little star to signify the location of castle Starfall, seat of House Dayne. To the south he draws the coastline and the southern sea, and to the south west he draws a little flower to signify the location of the Sunhouse, seat of House Cuy. Around that he adds a few little buildings to represent the town of Cuy. From there he continues west to draw the western edge of the Reach, as far north as Oldtown, before finally finishing with the island that is the Arbor that helps create the Redwater Straits.

"This is just around us," says Cleyton to the foreigners, forgetting they can't understand him, "give me another parchment and I can draw what I remember of Westeros."

This takes another round of charades to communicate.

The map of Westeros he draws is less savvy than the first map. The farther north he draws the more unsure his hand becomes and Cleyton pauses and redraws certain lines, muttering to himself. He marks a few of the important landmarks: Highgarden, Sunspear, King's Landing, Lannisport. After that the landmarks become much more vague: the Reach, the Neck, and the North all look out of proportion with the rest of the map. The foreigners don't appear to notice this. Once Cleyton is done Citlali and Akatzin look the maps over. Akatzin pulls out another scroll, this one also containing a crude map of an area, and they compare the maps while muttering phrases to one another, point at this and that. Lomys takes note of this other map, can see that it shows the land east of his family's farm. On the coastline he sees they've drawn an image of an eye.

Satisfied with the maps Cleyton's given them, Citlali and Akatzin bow their heads. Using the book they convey a message: us, you, help, harvest, work. This is a message that the poor family receives without much confusion. If the foreigners wish to eat with them once more it's only fair that they earn the privilege.

Citlali stays at the cottage to help their mother while Akatzin goes to work in the field with Lomys and his father. Akatzin leaves his cloak at the cottage and in doing so he reveals a tough sinewy body that looks accustomed to labor. Lomys realizes then that he doesn't know how old Akatzin is; his foreign features make him difficult to place. Whatever his age, Akatzin is childlike in his wonder of their little farm. He's distracted for a good long while by the family horse, an aging stot named Whitemane, that he inspects as the beast rests in its stable. He appears surprised by the presence of wheat on the farm and takes a few minutes to inspect and consider what's left of it on the field, as if trying to imagine it when it was full. His hand reaches to pluck out a stalk but before he does so he looks to Lomys, who looks to Cleyton, who nods. Akatzin takes the stalk of wheat and smells it, taking special precaution as he moves his nose close to the head of the stalk. He tears a piece of the head and eats it. Predictably, it tastes terrible, and he makes a grimace with each grinding chew. Lomys looks on, baffled, while Cleyton chuckles.

As the two of them show Akatzin how to work the scythe and where to store the harvest, Lomys can't help but think that this further kindness from these foreigners will change his father's mind about selling the book. Lomys becomes tense when his father hands the harvesting scythe to Akatzin, and remains so when Akatzin swings the scythe, taking care to watch the foreigner's hands. His father's words drift through his mind. Why are you so suspicious. How could he not know? He was there that razor thin moment when Lomys was ten, when they were robbed on their way back from Cuy. The bandits brandished knives and grim faces and took all the coin they made at market. The encounter lasted only a few minutes but it's echoed through Lomys' thoughts ever since then. The family had to go hungry for months. He doesn't know how his father can remain so kind to strangers after that. That's a lie: he knows. It's meant to be some fatherly lesson about kindness and guest right and honor and how we can't let the cruelty of life taint our souls. But ignoring cruelty doesn't make it go away.

The day goes by quick with another pair of hands on the farm for help and evening falls upon before too long. As supper approaches the twins come running out of the cottage to let the men know dinner is served.

In the family cottage Citlali serves up the stew as Layla minds the flame. The twins speak a few words in the foreigner's tongue. Citlali laughs at whatever it is they're saying as the rest of the family gathers at the table. Her laughing draws Lomys' gaze and he looks into the green irises of her eyes for a few moments too long and looks away.

Despite the fact that two of the people at supper can't converse with the others, an easy air settles over the dinner table. The twins ask about Akatzin and then tell their father and eldest brother about how handy Citlali is around the cottage. The two foreigners smile and appear pleased when they hear their names mentioned. After a little while the conversation dies down, as conversations tend to do, and in the lull Lomys sees an opportunity.

"We didn't have many chances to talk while we were working," says Lomys, "did anyone get to ask them about the pictures in the book?"

His parents exchange glances.

"Probably some foreign religion," says Layla, "but no, we didn't ask."

"I was trying to ask Citlali about her dress," says Calissa, "but it took all day and I still don't know how she made it."

"So they're dresses then?" asks Leander.

"There were pictures of death and famine, those have to mean something" says Lomys, "if they're worth putting in a book, they're worth talking about."

"Well, I suppose we can ask them now," says Cleyton.

"But they won't understand us," says Calissa, "Citlali's been teaching us all day and me and Leander still can't tell what she means most of the time."

"I bet I could ask her," says Leander with a confident defiance.

"Then ask her," says Lomys, "ask her why they need pictures of famine and people dying."

"Alright," says Leander. He opens his mouth to speak but he hesitates.

"I'll get the book," says Calissa.

"I don't need it!" says Leander, then, "Citlali."

Citlali turns to him.

"Here I have the book!" says Calissa.

Calissa opens the book to the pages of the dark sun and shows them to Citlali. As Leander struggles to find the words Calissa points to the images of death and famine, and says, "Ixiptli, tleca?"

Citlali looks surprised. She looks to Akatzin, who appears just as surprised, and then back to the family of smallfolk.

"Amatih amo ikualotl?" Citlali asks, bewildered.

The smallfolk look to Leander, waiting for a translation.

"She's surprised," interjects Calissa, "that we don't know that, ah, that...," she pauses then turns to Citlali, "nescayotia Ikualotl?"

Citlali asks for the book, and once it's in her hands she flips to the page with the dark sun.

"Ikualotl," says Citlali.


	2. Part 2

[Historical Note: Before the arrival of Europeans there were no horses in the Americas - a quirk paralleled in this story.]

* * *

ON THE JOURNEY TO CUY THE SMALLFOLK AND THE STRANGERS ARE BESET BY MISFORTUNE

That evening a great many pictures are pointed to before it becomes clear that what Akatzin and Citlali are attempting to relay is too complicated to explain with the words at hand. As the sun sets and the candles are lit a few more things are made clear at least: that they refer to themselves as the Atlacal, a word that takes a great many tries to say correctly; the ikualotl, the rot of the sun, is something they hold to be very important; that to speak more they'll need either more time or more expertise. Akatzin asks about wisemen, whether they exist in this land and where they can be found. Citlali proposes that the indigene escort them to Cuy, the place the father, Cleyton, drew on his map - the place marked with the drawing of a flower.

"The flower must be a chieftain of some kind," says Citlali to Akatzin.

"Could be," says Akatzin, "but it could also just be some temple, or some garden they worship, or something like that."

"If it's any of those then it's still a good destination. Whoever administers their religion is probably accustomed to study," says Citlali, "which is good, since it seems there's going to be a lot to explain."

The father points to himself and then to the map where the flower is, saying a few words in his indigene tongue.

"Yes, we'd like you to take us if you could," says Citlali.

Akatzin stands up a little straighter and speaks as if to a particularly dense child.

"Can. You," says Akatzin, "Take us," he points to himself, "To. This place?"

"Don't talk to them like that," says Citlali.

"How else will they understand?" says Akatzin.

The little girl, Calissa, clamors for their attention.

"My father," says Calissa, stumbling through Atlajtoli, "my father go with you, Cuy!"

"Wonderful! Thank you," says Citlali.

"Ask her how far it is," says Akatzin.

"You can ask her yourself," says Citlali.

"Calissa - yes," says Akatzin, "how far is Cuy?"

"Far, no," says Calissa, "near, no. Umm...in between!"

The girls always pick it up faster than the boys, Citlali thinks to herself.

At Calissa's declaration the father and the son begin what sounds like an intense and serious discussion. The son - Lomys - is exhorting something of his father with exasperated gestures. The father, for the first time since Citlali's seen, now looks annoyed. The mother chimes in to the discussion as well, although her voice appears neither to fan the flames nor cool them down. Citlali and Akatzin become uncomfortable; the discussion could only be about them after all. The twins listen with bored expressions, then turn back to Citlali.

"Family," says Leander, "loud."

Citlali smiles and shrugs. They asked Citlali an unending stream of questions as she tried to help their mother around the house. How to say this, how to say that, why is this word so funny, and so on. She supposes it shouldn't surprise her. Their neighbors are leagues away, all of them farmers that probably don't see much of each other except when they meet at market. The children's curiosity is probably starved, and so it's natural that their hungry minds make short work of Atlajtoli.

After a few tense minutes the argument appears resolved. The father doesn't look at his eldest son. The father then says something to his daughter and nods.

"My father go with you, Cuy," says Calissa.

"Thank you," says Citlali, first to Calissa then to Cleyton, who smiles and nods.

"When can he take us?" says Citlali.

"Tomorrow," says Calissa.

"Alright," says Citlali, "we can return tomorrow in the morning, so we can go to Cuy."

"Wait, are we leaving now?" asks Akatzin.

"Yes. They haven't invited us to stay, and we still have gear at our camp," says Citlali.

"They haven't invited us to stay yet, they might still invite us," says Akatzin.

The indigene look on now in silence, listening to their Atlajtoli intently. Akatzin makes a show of being tired, stretches and yawns and reclines. The twins giggle.

"Stop that," says Citlali, "come on, let's get going. We don't want to overstay our welcome."

Citlali gets up to say farewell, first in Atlajtoli then in the indigene tongue. It's a long and airy word in their language. Akatzin drags his feet a little bit but follows behind her. The indigene bid them farewell warmly, waving and saying friendly words, all of them save for the eldest son, who gives only a perfunctory nod as they exit through the cottage door.

Outside the night is young and the light of the moon is almost full so that the landscape appears bathed in blue ink. As they leave Citlali looks back and sees the small indigene house cast a lopsided silhouette, the orange light of a hearthfire shining from within the frame of a crooked window. Although they know the indigene can't understand them, there is still this strange feeling that Citlali and Akatzin ought to put a polite distance between them before they start speaking of them.

Once that time comes, Akatzin asks:

"Did you notice the smell?" He makes a face to get a rise out of Citlali.

"Akatzin, please," says Citlali.

"I'm serious," says Akatzin, "I saw no tub or room for bathing, neither outside nor in."

"They're simple farmers, they probably don't have much to spare," says Citlali.

"But when do they bathe?" asks Akatzin, "even in the Spined Desert people found ways to keep from this kind of shabbiness."

"Akatzin!" says Citlali. She's silent for a moment, but she relents, "I did notice it though. I hope it isn't common."

"What if it is?" asks Akatzin jokingly, "I don't know if I want to imagine it, a whole town full of these shabby, smelly, limestone-skinned people."

"Well we're shabby and smelly too," says Citlali, "it's not as if three months at sea does wonders for one's beauty."

"Then we'll fit right in," says Akatzin.

He laughs a loud laugh and Citlali allows herself an amused grin. Ever since they were first paired together in the Needles this has been their pattern: Citlali hews to the Codex and Akatzin mocks it, not out of skepticism but to get a rise out of Citlali. This didn't surprise Citlali even back during their training days at the School of the Obsidian Butterfly. She knows it's wrong to judge to people so superficially, but it's clear that although Akatzin has an Atlacal name his blood comes from Hinojovo. A narrower face, a slightly thinner more rigid nose, and a certain lightness of being that was uncommon for Citlali growing up in the City. Although she'd never trade her childhood for another's - and although folk of the Ephemeral City can be a stubborn and ornery type - she finds herself often wishing she could delight in life as easily as Akatzin does.

The two make their way back to the camp they established away from their ship, the Ixtehuetlon. Hidden in the heart of a small grove and surrounded by dense brush they hide their modest tent and the gear packs that serve as their lifelines. The packs contain the full assortment of tools provided to the Needles: a sharp obsidian-head hatchet, a long obsidian dagger, a bow of yacuna wood to help start fires, leather rolls and other basic camping gear, along with the fine iron needles for the string and the lodestone. Among all of this Citlali and Akatzin lay out their bedrolls to rest. Working on the indigene farm and the ensuing hike home were so tiring that there's little energy left for conversation.

Akatzin falls to sleep in a matter of moments, but Citlali can't seem to do the same. After what feels like an hour of fitful stops and starts, she gets out of her bedroll to tire herself out. She wanders out to the edge of the grove to look once more at this exotic land. This place is vast and wide, like the great prairie of the Circle, but the grass here is shorter and - unless the pale light of the moon is deceiving her - it has a slightly different hue of green than the grass back home. Although perhaps it's just her imagination. Here in this place where everything is so foreign, life looms large - the color and break of the stones and the earth, the bark and the leaves of the trees, the shape of flower's petals and the stalks of curiously sturdy herbs, the rabbits and the birds which look so unlike the rabbits and birds of Atlacal - and Citlali can sense teotl all around her. Although to have stumbled on a new island is enough, Citlali hopes that the eastern shores of the Sunrise Sea will have more to offer.

More people at least, Citlali thinks to herself. On it's first pass the Ixtehuetlon didn't spot any major settlements along the coast, but the weather had been rough and the visibility poor, and it was thought that there would be people further inland. Two weeks of wandering, all to find this lone family of indigene, far from any neighbors, and farther still from anything that could be called a town. It's curious that this land should be so sparse since at first glance it looks like fertile land for farming. Farmers sell at markets, and markets are made of people. People like to gather together, and once they've gathered enough, a few will want to be at the center. One just needs to follow the coin, thinks Citlali, just like it says in the Codex. The people will follow.

Because the night is warm Citlali settles against a tree and falls asleep.

Citlali dreams of being back home in Ayamictlan, in Atlacal. Of still being in training, of still learning the Art of the Needle. Usually these dreams have an anxious energy to them as Citlali relives those exhausting years of examinations and evaluation, but this time they give her reassurance. Unlike in reality, where Citlali existed as a middling student, in her dreams her hands are deft and agile. Her peers look to her for guidance, her teachers for the correct answer. She is at the edge of a dock in the port of Xalalco. She waits for Akatzin, who is struggling to make his way up the dock, tripping over himself. It's not clear what the problem is. Citlali tries to go to him but a crowd of people walk toward the Ixtehuetlon, a river of humans keeping her downstream from him and as he falls out of sight she panics. She wakes up in the middle of the night against the tree, and decides to sleep in her bedroll for the rest of the night.

In the morning Citlali rouses Akatzin, who always prefers another hour of sleep whenever he wakes up. They set out from their little grove back toward the indigene cottage. It's a strenuous walk back to the farm with their full packs and it's made worse by the chilly clouds that have crowded in on the morning. On their previous visits Citlali and Akatzin chattered excitedly on their way to and back from the smallfolk, marveling at the curiousness of such people, at the historic nature of the event. With all such awe exhausted now they pass the time by looking out at the landscape. In the light of day the terrain is not so different from home; there are places in Atlacal that look much like this. Yet when she looks out at this land she can't help but see the little changes of leaves and earth and wildlife that tell her that the teotl here is different. No - not different, just unknown, uncontemplated.

They come upon and over the hill of the indigene farm and as they arrive at the cottage they're greeted by an odd sight. The strange deer without antlers that the indigene have, the one that Akatzin examined the day before, is now outside of its pen and fixed to a cart. The deer doesn't resist this, nor does it look tense or wary. Cleyton and his son Lomys stand near it, loading bushels of wheat behind onto the cart behind the deer. During a break in the work - and much to Citlali and Akatzin's surprise - Cleyton actually reaches out to place his hand on the deer and the deer allows it.

"I thought they were going to eat it," says Akatzin, "I had no idea they tamed it."

"Do you think they grow wild like that," says Citlali, "without antlers?"

"I think so," says Akatzin, "I didn't see any stumps on it's head yesterday."

"Perhaps it's a doe," offers Citlali.

"Hah," says Akatzin, "I guess you aren't paying attention to the entire deer."

Cleyton spots them and waves in greeting and Lomys follows suit when his father notices him failing to do so. Cleyton invites the two to come closer and see their strange deer. Citlali doesn't let herself get too close for fear that it might begin to kick or jump at the presence of strangers but Akatzin approaches it with confidence.

"It's the same one from before alright, I remember these spots," says Akatzin. He looks the animal in its eyes, but the animal seems bored and finds something else to look at.

Cleyton says something in his foreign tongue, and motions to the cart. It's unclear what his meaning is, and after a moment Lomys gets up on the cart, just behind the deer. When he grabs a hold of the leather straps tied to the deer, and when Citlali sees they attach to wooden prongs attached to the cart, she understands what's happening.

"The deer is going to pull the cart," says Citlali.

"What?" says Akatzin. He looks from Lomys to the deer's leather straps, then at Cleyton, who is urging him on.

"That seems dangerous," says Akatzin, "it'll kick. Or run. Won't it?"

"It didn't kick Lomys," says Citlali.

"Well of course not, it knows him," says Akatzin.

"Well it knows you too doesn't it? You saw it yesterday," says Citlali.

Akatzin ponders this.

Not bothering to wait Citlali hops onto the back of the cart and looks back to Cleyton. He says something in his indigene tongue that sounds like assurance. The twins in the cottage, now realizing who's arrived, swarm outside to Citlali and say their greetings and farewells.

"Hello! Hello!" they shout in unison.

"Hello little ones!" says Citlali.

"You farewell?" asks Calissa.

"Yes," says Citlali, "I have to say farewell now."

Akatzin smiles and hops on to the back of the cart as well, not willing to look hesitant in front of the twins.

"Farewell! Farewell!" cry the twins in unison.

"Farewell little ones!" says Citlali.

Cleyton says something to his wife and then hops up onto the front with his son. Lomys passes him the leather straps at which point Cleyton whip cracks them up and down. The deer without antlers makes a high pitched bellow and the cart sets off, prompting Citlali and Akatzin to grab onto the wooden sides for leverage. It takes a moment for the fact that they're moving to hit them. What a clever little trick these indigene have come up with. The wooden wheels bounce up over a rock and they gasp and latch their arms onto the wooden sides once more as the cart jostles back and forth. To their surprise it holds together despite the roughness of the road. The relief that they won't have to walk all the way to this indigene town settles over them and they soon become lulled into a pleasant trance by the soft clip clops of the deer's hooves striking the earth, and watch the farmer's cottage shrink into the distance.

A rolling green landscape of plains and forest meanders by. The route the indigene take brings them closer to the coast and if she squints Citlali can see the blue hint of the ocean in the far distance. The clouds have overtaken the sun now and the day has taken on a gray cast but the sun still glimmers on the far waves. In her immediate vicinity the trees begin to overtake the plains and although the path travels across a hill the sight of the sea is lost after a few minutes. The trees remind Citlali of the trees in northern Lishasan. By the position of the sun she can tell that they're travelling south, down the coast. Whatever city the indigene are taking them to must be one that the Ixtehuelton went past on it's first run. I wonder how we missed it, Citlali thinks to herself, we must have started too far north when we first split off the from the other two ships. She goes to offer this idea to Akatzin but he doesn't turn to her - his gaze is locked on the forest uphill.

"Akatzin..." says Citlali.

"Shh," he says, "there are people out there."

"Where?"

"Don't look," says Akatzin. His eyes wander upward as if in thought. "They're trying to avoid being seen," his brows furrow in thought, "No one good tries to avoid being seen."

"Wait, they're following us? Are you sure? For how long?" asks Citlali.

"I don't know, I noticed them an hour ago, but I thought I was seeing things," says Akatzin, "I thought it was maybe just an animal moving in the woods at first, but I saw something gleam."

Citlali looks now and sees only trees. She scans behind them toward the two lined trail of deer hooves but sees nothing on the road. After a moment, a ways off to her side, the form of a man shifts and moves and disappears behind a tree trunk before she can get a good look at it.

"We have to tell the indigene," gasps Citlali.

"Tell them how?"

"We have the other Book of Talking Leaves, we can show them," says Citlali.

"What if they stop? We don't want them to stop just yet," says Akatzin.

"I'll tell them to hurry, it shouldn't be hard," says Citlali, "then we move from hurry to danger and they'll know not to stop."

Akatzin considers this, nods, and begins searching through his pack for the book.

Citlali tries to get herself up on the cart to get the attention of Cleyton and Lomys and realizes that they too are watching the forest with squinting eyes. They give up on hiding and step out of the underbrush now on the road ahead of the cart. Lomys looks to his father but Cleyton only looks on at the people coming out of the forest. There are five of them and all walk with the gruff insouciant swagger of bandits, dressed in the mismatched tatters of previous conquests. Two of them carry iron head axes while the other three brandish swords in scabbards. Lomys says something to his father, something serious, something urgent. Citlali watches all of this without moving.

"Bandits," whispers Citlali.

Akatzin - hand still in pack - pulls out the book but tosses it aside to search frantically for - yes - the obsidian dagger. The smoking mirror. The obsidian dagger with a sheath as long as his forearm. There is a disbelief in his eyes as he holds it. Citlali looks through her pack as well and finds her own, identical to his, and unsheathes it to reveal the black obsidian blade. Her reflection in it is warped and shadowy but she can still make out her eyes along the thin edge.

"Maybe I was wrong," says Citlali, "maybe they're not bandits, maybe they're just lost."

"Maybe," says Akatzin. He unsheathes his now too and looks at his own reflection, "but we have to prepare for all outcomes, right?"

Citlali looks unsure. She recalls her dream.

"Citlali, come on, we were trained for this," says Akatzin.

"I almost failed melee training," says Citlali.

"But you didn't, did you?" asks Akatzin.

One of the bandits hails Cleyton with a raised hand and Cleyton reins in his deer to a stop. Lomys' silence is tense and angry and Citlali sees him reach for something with his right hand, on the side of the cart the bandits can't see. Cleyton says some friendly words and smiles a simpletons smile. The bandits are unmoved and speak in a bored monotone. Cleyton laughs too hard and gives some reply, he points to the wheat and then to Citlali and Akatzin. The bandits' faces, rough and grimy and littered with scars, appear displeased. Their leader, a thin man with a sword, makes a suggestion, gives a shrug. The other four bandits chuckle with malice. Cleyton does not laugh and does not smile. He begins to respond with something when Lomys interjects, his words full of ire and spit. The leader points to Citlali. The bandits nod and say nothing else.

Citlali's grip tightens.

Lomys says something angry, and the moment that follows feels long.

Lomys is the first to get off the cart and as he does so he reveals the hatchet he hid under his seat. After a moment Akatzin and Citlali follow suit with their nexima in hand, not wanting to be caught flat footed. When the bandits see Lomys' hatchet their eyes go wide with surprise but they give a cocky chuckle. One of them, one with an axe, goes so far as to give a loud belly laugh. Cleyton is still trying to calm all the armed people around him but with each passing second it becomes more and more clear that this will not end quietly. He says something firm to his son. Lomys doesn't respond.

One of the men, with a sword still in its scabbard, walks forward toward Lomys, arms wide and daring him to take a swing. Lomys accepts the challenge and in a flash he buries the hatchet into the mans shoulder. The wet thud of the strike hangs in the air for a moment before the man screams. The other four rush forward and Citlali finds herself running up to meet them. Before she knows it she's on top of one of the other men with a sheathed sword. The bandit, distracted at the sight of his bloodied compatriot, only looks at her in surprise for a brief second before Citlali shoves the dagger into his abdomen, pointed up toward his soft innards. It does not strike her at that moment that she is killing the man, she just sees her dagger go in until the hilt. The bandit doubles over in pain and she strikes again into the center of his back and can feel bone shift the arc of her blade. Her fingers grip so tightly around the hilt they hurt.

Akatzin wrestles with another bandit, trying to keep him from swinging his sword.

Lomys' hatchet smashes into the head of the bandit he's already maimed.

Cleyton reaches for a bandit's axe only to have it's pommel slammed into his jaw.

The last bandit, also wielding an axe, barrels toward at Citlali.

A grey blur of iron cuts across and she croches down to dodge it. Citlali's blood is a torrent in and out of her heart as she stumbles back and points it out toward this new bandit. The bandit takes another swing, overhead, and Citlali jumps back. She feels the wind of it against her skin. A wordless panic seeps through her mind; a cold realization; the next blood spilled could be hers. The bandit takes another swing and Citlali ducks under once more, tries to move to the man's exposed side, but she stumbles and falls to a knee. The bandit sets his eyes on hers and for a surreal second she notices that the bandit's irises are blue. She's never seen blue irises before, never could have guessed at the strange way the color stands out in the center of a murderous blood red gaze. Citlali raises her dagger as she struggles to get to her feet but it's not long enough to reach him. The bandit raises his axe up to swing but before it comes down he gasps in pain as a black blade erupts from his abdomen - interrupting his wind up and causing him to swing blindly.

Citlali takes the opportunity to scramble to her feet and raises her obsidian dagger high, reaching up and plunging it into the bandit's neck. The man struggles for a few moments as the blood rushes out of him, but it's only after his body has gone slack on the ground that Citlali collects herself and notices Akatzin, standing but only just, his arms are wrapped around his abdomen. He takes a faltering step to try and steady himself but he misses his footing and falls to the ground. The red of his life spills out onto the dark foreign soil.

"Akatzin!" cries Citlali. She takes a step toward him as he coughs up blood.

Through labored breathing he says: "one more."

Citlali whips around at the realization and sees the last of the bandits in a standoff against Lomys. The two stand across from each other, eyes angry and locked in. The adjusts the grip on his axe and realizes that with Citlali on her feet he's outnumbered two to one. His eyes lose something of their rage and gain a slight uncertainty, but he doesn't lower his axe. All wait to see how the others move. He wants to run, let him run, Citllali thinks to herself, we need to tend to Akatzin and Cleyton. Cleyton. On the ground she sees Cleyton, a ragged slash across his neck. The expression on his face is of fear and his chest neither rises nor falls. The last bandit stands near his corpse. That's the man that killed him, Citlali thinks to herself. She looks to Lomys but can't see his face - she sees only the calm and steady grip he has on his hatchet. He won't let this one run.

Citlali takes a step to steady herself and the bandit takes a step back. Lomys steps forward - the man makes for the woods and Lomys gives chase.

"No," whispers Citlali, "No, NO! WAIT!"

But it's too late by then, the bandit and Lomys disappear into the thicket.

Akatzin.

Citlali drops her nexma and rushes to her pack before going to Akatzin. He lays on his side, arms still wrapped around his belly, legs curled up.

"I can save you," says Citlali. She hunts through her gear for needle and thread to start sewing the wound.

"You did well," says Akatzin, "you did better than me. You killed two and I only killed one."

"Let me see the wound."

Akatzin says nothing.

"Let me see it Akatzin!"

"I can't."

"Why not?!"

"I can feel - " begins Akatzin, "I can feel warmth in my hands. I- I didn't think it would be like this. I don't think I can let go."

Citlali looks at his clutching hands. In the spaces between his fingers she can see the deep red of organ flesh. Her trained eyes leave no doubt in her mind. It's more than she can heal - it'd be difficult even for a blood priest. And the nearest one of those is at the Ixtehuetlon, a weeks journey away, at least.

"You…," begins Citlali, "you- we- I can sew you up, we can keep you going until we find a healer, the indigene must have healers of some kind, some basic herbs we could use-"

"No," says Akatzin. A thin frailty strains his voice, "they won't. And even if they did, I won't make it that long. I've lost too much blood already."

"Akatzin-"

"I don't want to die a lingering death," says Akatzin, "I don't want that after life. Better that I die here. Xolotl will judge that I died in battle and allow my spirit to go east. Well, more east than here, anyway."

A weak smile, a labored breath.

Citlali can't bring herself to say anything. The tears flood through all at once.

"The dagger," says Akatzin.

Citlali nods and takes the black obsidian in dagger in hand.

"Until we meet in the Underworld," says Citlali.

NOCHTLI STANDS GUARD

The twenty Blades set up their little camp on the inside wall near the gate of the pale stone fortress. The translation of the indigene name for it is the Castle of the Fallen Star, or so the Needles believe. The central courtyard - a large field of dirt and muck corralled in by tall stone walls - is populated by pale indigene artisans that have set up shop in wooden stalls. Other indigne walk here and there, sometimes astride the great antlerless deer-beasts that inspire no small amount of awe in the hearts of the Atlacal. Captain Tenoch, leader of the group that escorted the ambassadors is cautious, orders the men to avoid interacting with the natives whenever possible: establishing relations is the role of the Needles and they don't like clumsy soldiers complicating the diplomatic process. They're outnumbered a hundred to one besides, so avoiding misunderstandings is in everyone's best interest.

Nochtli is on first watch along with four others. This entails standing in an equi-distant semi-circle around the camp that the others set up against one of the stone walls of the fortress. Behind him Nochtli can hear his compatriots struggle to set up the wooden skeletons of the tent in this foreign muck. He himself feels his wooden sandals sink ever so slowly into this mud, but there's nothing to be done. At the very least however, as Nochtli must face outward in order to keep watch, he has ample time to take in the strange folk hosting his troop.

The first and most notable thing is the paleness of their skin. Although the laborers - the blacksmiths and the farmers - have been touched by the sun, Nochtli notices that many have skin as white as limestone. How can this be? While on watch Nochtli is not permitted to speak unless addressed by his captain, so he can only listen to the speculation of his fellow fighters. Mixkoatl says that the color makes the indigene look frail, as if they had been pulled out of the womb too early and were forever diluted as a result. Tizoc points out something even more unusual: some of the pale indigene have hair in a shiny yellow color, almost like gold. Nochtli sees one such indigene now - a golden haired woman in a long red dress that looks uncomfortably warm. She, like many of the other indigene, wander over to the Blades' makeshift camp, and it isn't long until a small crowd gathers. For a moment Nochtli worries that he might have to push them back but the indigene guards - gruff men in iron armor - step in to make sure the other indigene don't get too close. Presumably this is some arrangement the Needles have worked out with the man Nochtli saw them trying to talk to - the old man with a chain of oversized rings.

The indigene of the crowd point and gawk and scratch their heads. If Nochtli wasn't on guard he'd be doing the same right back at them.

"Look at that one," says Mixkoatl.

Nochtli can't see who he's pointing to but he knows who he has to be talking about: an indigne man with brown hair and pale skin and an impossibly bushy beard that seems like it goes right up to his eyes. The beard makes the indigene look more beast than man - an illusion aided by the thick brown hair all along his forearms.

"Ahh... well. Huh," says Tizoc, "do you think it grows on their faces like that all by itself? Or do you think they do something to help it along?"

"Why would you want a beard like that?" asks Mixkoatl, "he looks like an animal, and look-"

"Do not point at the indigene Mixkoatl," says Captain Tenoch, "we don't know what's considered rude here."

"Well they're pointing at us Captain," says Mixkoatl, "seems only fair we get to point back."

Behind him Nochtli hears silence, and although he doesn't turn back he can somehow sense that Captain Tenoch is giving Mixkoatl a stern look.

"Do you remember what happened in the archipelago?" asks Captain Tenoch.

All of the men remember because there hasn't been a single day of their voyage that Tenoch hasn't reminded them.

"Yes," reply the men in unison.

"What happened when then the Empire set their eyes on the second island?" asks Captain Tenoch.

The men mutter a response.

"Hmm?" says Captain Tenoch. Then: "Nochtli!"

"Yes sir!" says Nochtli.

The indigene onlookers mutter and point as Captain Tenoch barks out his questions. They've gone from hushed whispers to open speculation so Nochtli has a chance to hear the indigene tongue clearly for the first time: a mash of consonants littered with vowels that rise and fall with an odd tempo, quite unlike the sing-song of Atlajtoli.

"You're still a Green Shoot," says the Captain - he likes to pull rank when making a point about history - "you're from some know-nothing family of bumpkin fisherman on the coast. But I imagine even you can tell me what happened on that fateful day."

"Sir, a Blade warrior put up three fingers to an indigene merchant to request three fish to eat," says Nochtli while still at guard, "the indigene took this to mean the Blade was an emissary of one of their deities and declared the Atlacal evil."

"And how long were the indigene able to hold out?" asks Tenoch.

"Nine years, sir," says Nochtli.

"Nine years! And during a Rotted Sun! Tens of thousands fell to the curse before balance could be restored! An event so devastating that even this bumpkin managed to learn about it," says Tenoch, "the indigene are not always receptive to the delegations of the Ivory Mask. So it will be as I said: no pointing. No counting. No hand signs of any kind. We leave that to the Needles. The Blades protect and enforce and nothing else. You understand me Mixkoatl?"

"Yes sir," says Mixkoatl.

"You understand me you misshapen mongrels?!" shouts Captain Tenoch.

"Yes sir!" shouts Nochtli in unison with the other Blades.

At this the indigene startle and then, seeing the Blades return to their tents, they coo in curiosity.

While Nochtli doesn't look back - his attention is drawn to one of the indigene smiths, a portly old man with a gray beard that hangs all the way down to his stomach - from ensuing silence he assumes that the conversation is finished. But one more issue is raised.

"Captain Tenoch, do you think we'll have gifts before the next Rotted Sun?" asks Tizoc.

"We will if you keep to your orders," says Tenoch.

After that the Captain retires to a little corner of their small camp and leaves the men not on guard to discuss amongst themselves. As they finish setting up the men speak in whispers so as to avoid any further lectures from the Captain. Unfortunately Nochtli can't make out what they're saying either. So instead he tries to keep an eye out for the woman with the golden hair that he saw before. Until today he'd never once considered that a person could look like that. He didn't think his voyage on the Loatilistli would amount to anything at all: this was supposed to be a quiet tour of duty, a wasteful whim of the Tlon. And yet here he is, looking into the crowd of limestone-skinned indigene, his eyes catching for just a moment the eyes of the woman with hair like gold before she's lost in the mix.

CITLALI AND LOMYS DESPAIR AT THEIR SITUATION AND FIND COMMON CAUSE

In all the commotion Citlali didn't even realize that the deer and the cart had run off down the road. When Akatzin died she sat very still for a long time.

Out of the forest comes Lomys. Did he kill the bandit? Citlali asks herself. His hatchet is bloody but is it blood from one man or two? Lomys walks back toward the road with purpose, his face possessed of a far away look until, after finally noticing Citlali and the corpses and the lack of deer and cart, he stops to survey the aftermath.

He walks over to his dead father. He drops to his knees. Citlali wants to say something but he wouldn't understand her, and she's not sure that Lomys ever liked her or Akatzin anyway. Perhaps it's best to let him grieve in peace.

I need to bury Akatzin, Citlali thinks to herself, his life will nourish these strange lands. The grave need not be deep either - Tlatetl accepts gifts of warrior's corpses freely. There's a knot in her throat. She reprimands herself for being so upset, after all, Akatzin goes on to a better place. But that means he's not here any more, and now she's out amongst indigene all alone. There's a small shovel in her pack to dig the grave but Citlali realizes her pack was still on the cart when the deer ran off. Akatzin's pack however appears to have fallen off in the commotion. At least she'll have something to remember him by.

Citlali begins digging on the side of the road, far enough away that it won't risk being disturbed. Better to bury him quick before she must witness nature reclaim what is hers. The soil at least is not tough or rocky. The shovel is made of tough gold-obsidian and it makes short work of the soil, but digging a grave is still a hard task nonetheless. Lomys looks over at the sounds of digging and watches her work for a few moments. Do these indigene bury their dead? Citlali wonders to herself. She stops shoveling, looks over to him. Their eyes meet. His are angry for a moment but the rage dissipates and they go blank and far away again. Citlali worries that he can't control himself now, that something inside him has given way. Lomys opens his mouth to speak but he stops himself; he spots Akatzin's corpse. Even if they could speak the same language, what could she say?

"I'm sorry," says Citlali.

Lomys says something in his foreign tongue.

There is a moment of silence.

Citlali starts to resume digging but Lomys stops her and points to the shovel. Citlali offers it to him and he takes it and takes a turn digging. When he slows down Citlali asks for the shovel and they trade back and forth, digging a pair of graves for their dead. Once their bodies have been laid down and the graves refilled Lomys drops to his knees and clasps his hands together in prayer. Citlali stands with her head inclined downward and beseeches Xolotl to show Akatzin's and Cleyton's spirits east.

The corpses of the bandits are left in the sun. Their spirits can find their own way to the Underworld.

Citlali turns to Lomys, her only remaining human tie to this place. The young man from the farm gets up on his feet and takes the bloody hatchet with him his walk back to the road.

"Lomys?" asks Citlali as he walks away.

Lomys doesn't respond. Once at the road he starts walking in the direction of his family's farm. Citlali grabs her pack, makes sure to lay hands on her nexima and keep it close, and then goes and follows behind the indigene. There can be no more travelling alone - and she's not sure where to go from here besides. As they rode on the cart for hours at a good pace, it'll take until sundown to get back to the farm. Citlali picks up her pace to catch up to Lomys who shows no signs of slowing down for her. Lomys doesn't invite her to follow him but he doesn't turn her away either. He doesn't look at her at all.

The cottage comes into view not too long after the stars begin to appear in the sky. There is no hearth fire from within, which is strange. Citlali is unsure if Lomys notices this; he seems unmoved by the sight of his home. When they reach the cottage door however, Lomys loses himself. The door is open and inside one can see the signs of struggle. The chairs and table are thrown about, the shelves are crooked, and the various everyday objects of life are strewn across the floor.

Lomys cries out to his mother, to his little brother and sister, but there is no response.

Citlali looks around and sees no sign of any of them in the little cottage but Lomys searches anyway, overturning the chairs that he can already see behind, wandering into his parents bedroom and shuffling the hay of their bed, turning over blankets that are flat on the ground. It would be comical if not for the look on Lomys' face, a mad eyed mix of disbelief and despair. Could it have been the last bandit, Citlali thinks to herself, could he have had more friends? Did this whole family die because they went out of their way to help guide her?

"I'm sorry," says Citlali, her head lowered in tacit guilt.

Lomys looks at her. The anger is back in his eyes and Citlali takes a step back, moves her hand toward her dagger. In the dark Lomys doesn't see the motion. He ignores her, runs outside, over to the small shed where the deer was housed and where they kept their harvest, shouting for his family as if they might not have heard him yet. Citlali watches from the cottage, hears him shout and clatter about inside, but still she hears no one answer him. Lomys leaves the shed and looks out into the dark landscape, shouts once more, then falls to his knees, screaming out at the sky. She doesn't need to know his language to know his words.

Citlali wants to tell him that they should leave this farm, this cottage. That whoever came for his family may be watching, that they may return to finish the both of them. These would be difficult things to convey she imagines, even with the help of the Book of Talking Leaves. After a moment Lomys rises to his feet once more and begins shouting anew, his voice straining as he runs himself ragged overturning every stone on his family's land. He won't listen. He still can't believe what his eyes are telling him, why would he care what she has to say? If Citlali had sense she would go off on her own to avoid being caught with him. Instead she sits outside the cottage, possessed by the curious nihilism of her people, thinking: if the bandits should return for us, then so be it.

Citlali falls asleep while sitting outside waiting. She wakes up leaning against the rough stone walls of the place and sees Lomys asleep in the middle of the field.

From here she could turn back and find the Ixtehuetlon on her own, couldn't she? The map she had was lost along with the deer and the cart, but she still has a lodestone and a needle - could she find her way back? Would there be more bandits? Citlali and Akatzin ran into none on the way here, but that could have been a lark. And what's more, this time she would be making the journey alone. An easy mark.

Lomys sits up in the field. His shoulders slump. He stares at an old stump at the edge of the field for a good long while. He looks back at Citlali and their eyes meet. He gets up and walks toward her.

"Cuy," he says.

It takes Citlali a moment to remember the word.

"Cuy?" she asks, "the city? You still want to go there?"

Lomys points to himself, then to Citlali, then west, and says: "Cuy."

WITH SOME DIFFICULTY, PROPOSITIONS ARE DISCUSSED AND UMBRAGE IS TAKEN

The foreign delegation is invited to stay and the two ambassadors, or delegates, or the "Needles", as they call themselves, accept. Yaotzin and Iyali are given one room to share but the two do not appear to care for this arrangement, and Lord Edric is quick to make two rooms available to them. Most of their soldiers make camp within the castle walls after speaking with Yaotzin but a handful are sent back to the dock to relay some message to the ships. The Atlacal soldiers, which they call the "Blades", take care to avoid speaking or interacting with any of Starfall's fighting men, preferring to speak amongst one another in their curiously musical tongue.

The sun is well below the horizon when Lord Dayne shows the two ambassadors to their rooms. Before the two retire to for the evening Yaotzin presents the young Lord with a gift, offering him the green book that they were using to communicate. Edric accepts it happily, and for the rest of the evening he and Maester Cidrio sit in the Lord's solar skimming the pages and looking through the pictures. Maester Cidrio declares the book a type of picture dictionary, although he's perplexed by the choice of images. They don't seem to be chosen in anything resembling order: half of the pictures are of the sorts of common words anyone would need to survive, and the other half are depictions of plants and animals not known to the Maester, all of them jumbled together.

The next two days, over lengthy meals, the two ambassadors use their green leather book to teach their language to the young Lord Dayne and Maester Cidrio. The Maester struggles to imitate their odd consonants and to remember their flowery vocabulary, but Lord Edric takes to their tongue quickly. The two ambassadors are happy to indulge him, prioritizing his education in their language above discussing their own origin or the make of their ships - this latter being mostly a disappointment to Cidrio. Yaotzin and Iyali end up learning some of the common tongue in return and they inquire about the origin of the name of Castle Starfall. Edric and Maester Cidrio try to relay to them the story of the first Dayne tracking a falling star to the spot where the castle now sits, but Iyali and Yaotzin don't seem to understand. To help drive the point home Edric insists on showing them Dawn, the ancient longsword forged from the same material as the fallen star of the castle's name. As no new Sword of the Morning has been named Dawn sits in it's display room in the treasury, protected by a retinue of armed guards. Although Allyria is stewardess Edric is still the Lord of Starfall apparent, so he is free to enter the treasury and approach the statue of a falling star that serves as Dawn's resting place. Free as well to lift it up and show it to his guests. To handle an heirloom this way gives the little Lord a moment's hesitation, but Yaotzin's and Iyali's eyes go wide as they marvel at its pale milkglass color, and Edric can't help but take pride in his ancestors' weapon.

Lord Edric grants the ambassadors free movement about the castle - and to their soldiers as well. At this all of castle Starfall comes alive with the movements of the soldiers and their curious manners. When not called upon to do so by their own strictures the Atlacal leave aside their cloaks leather-rope-like armor if they feel hot, wearing only their short pants-like loincloths and wooden sandals leaving their tattooed chests are bare for all to see. The styles of their hair and the piercings are of all shapes and sizes, many completely unimagined by the Westerosi: men with hair in a thin line on their head like a horse, men with long hair they gather in a high knot, men who've cropped their hair short into animalistic designs. The Atlacal soldiers too, find their hosts odd: to a man they are all bemused by bushy beards and yellow hair. They are perturbed by the sight of horses and make faces at the dung smell of livestock and the musty smell of humanity mixed all together in one place. They look upon castle Starfall's walls with a craftsman's critical eye, tapping the stone and nodding to themselves, shrugging and conversing with one another. Rumors go around that the foreigners are searching for treasure, or that they are searching for a new home, or that their arrival was prophesied by Ser So-and-So or Maester Somesuch. Others claim that they are emissaries from the Lord of Light or the new gods, or the old gods, or the drowned god, or even that they are godless barbarians from a backwards land. But if they are simple godless barbarians, then from whence their ship? No one can answer that question except for the Atlacal themselves. But they have their own questions: why is it that a small city is walled together with this castle? Doesn't this restrict trade? Messages? Food and water? Is it to protect from the hooved deer-beasts? They do look like they could cause damage if they had a mind to.

Needless to say, neither side can pose their questions to the other.

On the third day of hosting the delegation Ser Brownstone and Maester Cidrio urge the council of House Dayne to greet the Atlacal ambassadors in the lord's solar as an official meeting of sovereigns. Edric and Cidrio claim to know enough of their tongue to carry on a discussion. The news goes over well. Allyria, the council, all the minor nobility, and even the small folk of Starfalltown who have to listen in from outside, are eager to know just what the foreigners intend.

At midday a meeting is convened in the pale stone lord's solar. Lord Dayne is seated on his throne and the three members of his council are seated around him, Allyria to his right and Brownstone and the Maester on his left. The minor nobility crowd onto the observation platform above leaving the solar floor to be crowded by House Dayne's closest bannermen and allies. Everyone wants to know where that ship came from, Allyria thinks to herself. Dornish guards stand at sharp attention to form a barrier between the the nobility and to clear path down the center of the solar on which the foreigners will arrive. All the assembled speak in hushed tones as they watch the entrance to the solar, two great wooden doors carved out of a rich dark wood and engraved with the sword and star that is House Dayne's banner.

The doors open. The speaking ceases. A small contingent of warriors enters in two rows of six, silent and stoic, keeping their eyes forward just like their Dornish counterparts. Their strange swords, their "macuahuitl", draw wandering eyes:great wooden oars with dragonglass blades set into the edges are carried closely at the warriors' sides and maces with large obsidian heads are slung over the shoulder. House Dayne's bannermen, all of them eager to see the people known as the Atlacal speak, are gathered nearest to the arriving soldiers, and they press forward to catch glances. Yaotzin and Iyali walk between the two columns of soldiers, wearing their blue cloaks and carrying their green leather book. The pair walk into the clearing before the young Lord Dayne and his council, place their right hands over their hearts, and bow. Lord Dayne nods his head to acknowledge them and the two stand upright.

[[You were right Iyali,]] whispers Yaotzin to Iyali, [[there's no doubting it now. This child is their king.]]

[[A theocracy like Iwaniku,]] whispers Iyali, then, looking at Edric, [[the scion of a holy family.]]

"What are they saying?" asks Allyria of her nephew.

"I'm not sure," says Edric, "they speak so quickly when they speak with one another."

Yaotzin and Iyali, aware they've been overheard, fall silent and wait to be addressed.

[[My friends,]] says Edric with a clumsy accent, [[I want know why you visit.]]

Iyali and Yaotzin look at each other. Iyali nods to Yaotzin and he puts on a serious and official demeanor. He says:

[[We are here as servants of Our Rotted Lord TLON, He of the Ivory Mask, Emperor of the Place of Reeds, First Among the Triple Alliance, and the Servant Destined for Sacrifice.]]

Allyria and Ser Brownstone look from the ambassadors to Edric and Maester Cidrio.

"I can't put together what most of those words mean I'm afraid," says the Maester, "but they say them often when we ask about their reasons for being here. The young Lord Dayne believes it to be the name of their lord."

"Or their king," says Edric, "or something like that. I think all those words are his titles."

[[Our lands are blessed by the Sixth Sun,]] continues Yaotzin, [[and in accordance with the it's needs the Tlon seeks to bring the Sun's gifts to distant lands, so that when the time of ikualotl comes, we may come and ask for the gifts the Sun requires in return.]]

A silence settles over the lord's solar. The bannermen and the council look to their young Lord, awaiting a response.

[[You give gift,]] says Edric to the Atlacal, [[we give gift?]]

[[I'm not sure they understand,]] whispers Iyali.

[[We owe it to our hosts to be forthright,]] says Yaotzin, [[and the young king seems to get the idea of what I said. Lord Edric, you understand me, correct?]]

[[I understand,]] says Edric, [[gifts for gifts. Trade.]]

[[Yes Lord Edric,]] says Yaotzin with a smile, [[a trade.]]

[[That isn't quite the whole of it though, is it?]] says Iyali.

The bannermen mutter amongst themselves, anxious to hear something intelligible.

"What are they saying Edric?" asks Allyria.

"Trade," says Edric, "You come to trade?" he asks louder for all to hear.

The question alone seems to ease the frustrated tension in the air.

[[In a way,]] says Iyali, then, haltingly: "we give gifts. In future, you give gifts. But gifts-"

"What gifts do you bring?" asks Allyria.

"Many gift, many gift," Yaotzin assures her.

"Ah- yes, but what gifts is it that you bring?" asks Allyria.

"Teachings," says Iyali, "mahiz, medicines, quetzali."

"Mahiz is a type of food, a vegetable they eat. I've seen pictures of it in their book," says Edric to his court, proud to display his knowledge, then to the Atlacal: [[friends, what is quetzali?]]

[[Feathers plucked from the birds of the Jeweled Flock,]] says Yaotzin.

Edric looks confused.

"Pretty feather," says Iyali.

An amused chuckle ripples through crowds on the platform and on the solar floor.

"I don't know what use we would have for feathers," says Ser Brownstone, "besides pillows I suppose."

[[What quetzali do?]] asks Maester Cidrio.

"Pretty," offers Iyali, "quetzali pretty, quetzali rare."

[[Hrmmm...you say teachings?]] asks Maester Cidrio, [[what teach you?]]

[[Anything you'd like,]] says Yaotzin, [[we can teach you the movement of the stars and the knot-language of the Iwaniku, we can teach you how to create milpas and harvest the Three Sisters, we can teach-]]

[[Ship?]] asks Maester Cidrio, [[teach make ship?]]

[[Yes,]] says Yaotzin, [[we can teach you how to build a ship.]]

The Maester smiles a wide smile.

"They say they can teach us how to make a four masted ship," says the Maester. The bannerman chuckle and nod in pleasant surprise. Even Ser Brownstone looks pleased by this fact. He looks to Allyria who examines the two strangers with an arched eyebrow.

"You mentioned medicines," says Allyria to Iyali. To Edric she says: "ask what sort of medicines they bring."

Edric considers this and opens his mouth to speak a few times, but he looks stumped.

"Can you ask if they can cure grayscale or shaking sickness my Lord?" asks Ser Brownstone.

"They have a word for sickness, but...I don't know, they haven't taught us words for different kinds of sickness," says Edric.

"That question also assumes that they have grayscale where they're from," says Maester Cidrio, "the Summer Isles has never had a case of grayscale, for example. This foreign land may not have it either, so it follows that they might not have a word for it."

"Medicines good," says Yaotzin reassuringly, "medicines strong."

The council, a bit surprised that the Atlacal could follow that much of their conversation, smile and nod at their guests.

"And what is it you ask of us?" asks Allyria, "what gifts do you want?"

"You gifts?" asks Yaotzin.

[[What gifts you want?]] asks Edric.

[[The gifts aren't for us. The gifts are for the sun,]] says Iyali, "when ikualotl, we want gifts for sun."

"My little lord," says Allyria to her nephew, "what is ikualotl? I've heard them say it often."

"A special event, maybe a holy day," says Edric.

"Part of their religion is my hypothesis," says Maester Cidrio.

"They have pictures of the sun being eaten by darkness so that it's black, and then the darkness goes away again," says Edric.

"A curiosity to be sure," says Maester Cidrio, "Maesters who've earned a bronze ring would know of such things, I can send a raven to the Citadel to seek their counsel on the matter."

"So they want to peddle their foreign religion then?," asks Ser Brownstone.

"Ikualotl not now," says Iyali, "ikualotl two years future."

[[When ikualotl,]] says Edric, [[we give gifts?]]

"Yes," says Iyali.

[[But what gift? What is gift for sun?]] asks Edric.

"Pretty things," says Iyali, "pretty jewels, art, good food, people."

"A celebration of some sort?" asks Maester Cidrio, thinking out loud.

"A feast?" asks Ser Brownstone with a chuckle, "doesn't sound so bad a trade."

Allyria looks unconvinced. Her consternation stands out all the more as she appears to be the only member of the court still perplexed by this offer. The lesser nobles and the bannermen chatter excitedly among themselves, guessing at what other good tidings these foreigners might bring and mulling over a religion built around - what was it? A dark sun?

"Lord Edric," says Yaotzin, "you take our gifts?"

Allyria looks to Edric. She is glad to see that he doesn't answer right away, that he takes this offer seriously. These are not gifts, this is a sort of agreement, a sort of pact. A seemingly good pact - House Dayne's fleet would be much improved by these four masted ships - but one whose details are not all clear, or at least not to her. Allyria wants to counsel patience but she bites her tongue. Perhaps this sort of endeavor is the motivation Edric needs to assume his role as Lord of Starfall. And what harm could it be to take gifts and hold a feast? Feasts have been thrown for much lesser reasons than this. This is not some serious decision, Allyria thinks to herself, this is a foolish little pact with some funny foreigners, just a goodwill act with traders from the Summer Isles or somewhere near abouts.

Lord Edric Dayne looks at his council then out at his court. They wait eagerly for his response.

"Yes. We accept your gifts," says Edric.

The court cheers and claps. Maester Cidrio grins from ear to ear. Ser Brownstone crosses his arms but smiles slyly. Allyria remains stoic, aware of the diplomatic nature of this event. Iyali and Yaotzin smile and bow.

"Shall we have a feast to celebrate my lord?" asks Ser Brownstone.

"Feast!" cries out a voice from the court, joined in a moment by others, "Feast! Feast!"

Seeing the crowd begin to chant, Yaotzin motions to one of the Atlacal warriors to come to the center clearing. The warrior does so, bringing with him an obsidian dagger and his macuahuitl just as the elation in the room rises to applause.

[[Let us seal our agreement,]] says Yaotzin. In the cacophony of cheering voices, his voice is difficult to hear.

When the Atalcal warrior stands in front of Iyali and Yaotzin and before the council of House Dayne with his weapons however, the court falls silent again.

[[My friends,]] says Edric, [[who is this?]]

"He help make pact," says Iyali.

The court looks on.

[[Are you ready brother?]] Iyali asks of the warrior.

The warrior's stoic expression does not change as he nods. He offers his sheathed dagger to Iyali and his macuahuitl to Yaotzin and turns to face the Lord of Starfall. The warrior kneels with both knees on the ground and the scraping of his legs echos through the solar's empty air. People crane their necks out to get a better glimpse of what's going on. What is going on?, Allyria thinks to herself.

[[Brave warrior, sacred sacrifice, inform Xolotl that your spirit is destined for the place where the sun rises,]] says Iyali.

Iyali unsheathes the dagger and drives it through the kneeling man's back, piercing his heart with a sharp, low, thud. The warrior gasps but doesn't move. Iyali retrieves the dagger and steps away from him. The man bends forward at the waist and lowers his head in a bow at which point Yaotzin slices through his neck with one clean swing of the macuahuitl. The warrior's head rolls crookedly away from his body as blood seeps from the warrior's neck and pools on the cold stone floor.

Iyali and Yaotzin bow.

The silence breaks.

CITLALI AND LOMYS SEEK AUDIENCE WITH THE LORD OF SUNHOUSE

At midday the air is still cool and crisp from the morning. A collection of wispy clouds in the sky veils the sun, and across the green expanse of the Reach the clouds' shadows drift across the landscape.

Lomys looks to Citlali walking alongside him. Her green eyes are focused forward on the path before them. He looks away from her before she has the chance to notice him, to avoid making eye contact. At first he didn't want to take her to Cuy at all- at first he wanted to shout at her, hurt her, see her suffer. The impulse was misplaced, he can see that now. It's not her fault that they were ambushed by bandits, that they killed her friend and his father, it's not her fault that the bandits went to go find his family's farm and - well. But isn't it true that they were going to wait a day or so before heading to town? Isn't it true that Citlali and Acatzin pressed them to head out earlier than planned? Perhaps, if they had waited, the bandits wouldn't have been there. Perhaps the bandits would have chosen another cart of smallfolk to menace. Perhaps his family would still be alive. Perhaps this is all a dream - yes, perhaps Lomys dozed off after a hard day out on the field, and in just a few moments he'll open his eyes and see momma and poppa and Leander and Calissa seated all around the little hearth of their cottage, sopping up last of the meat stew in their bowls with bread, and they'll all laugh at Lomys for being so absent minded as to fall asleep during dinner.

Perhaps. But every passing second he doesn't wake up reminds him of just how fickle the word perhaps can be.

Lord Cuy will know what to do, Lomys thinks to himself. Lords are educated men, wise and knowledgeable on matters of justice. The law has been broken. He will see that it is righted. A Lord's duty is to defend his land and his people, is it not? He is meant to dispense the Father's justice, is he not? Well, perhaps justice to his people at least. Lomys glances at Citlali again and notices the beginnings of tattoos on her collarbone that disappear under the fabric of her white and blue tunic. He notices the jade stud under her lip, the gold earring on her eyebrow and the gold rings all up and down her ears. She looks like a whore, Lomys thinks to himself, bitter and angry. It'd be a surprise if the highborn don't cast her out of Cuy entirely. Citlali notices him and their eyes meet for a moment before he looks away. A whore, he thinks to himself again, but the word rings hollow. Part of him knows that he's being cruel to her because the world has been cruel to him. But this ire is preferable to the despair his memories of his family bring him. At least this way he feels alive.

It's their second day of travel and they have another before they reach the town. They packed well for the journey: Citlali organized her foreign tools to make the most space in her leather pack, and Lomys took the pack his father would sometimes use, as well as the handful of silver stags he knew his father hid under the floorboards. Travel rations of bread and hard cheese are split between them. Citlali didn't ask any questions of him as to why they're headed to Cuy. Lomys imagines she has her own reasons, the same reasons she had when she first asked to be taken there, although he still doesn't know what those are. He hasn't tried asking her; Citlali doesn't seem to want to speak anymore than necessary. Whereas before she was more than happy to try and teach and speak using her green book, now she doesn't bother to take it out of her bag. If anything needs to be communicated she says his name - her accent morphing Lomys into Lowmees - and points to this or that. Even when they stopped to sleep on the first evening - when Lomys ached to say something about the hole left by his family's death, to speak aloud and let her know of his heart collapsing in on itself, even if she couldn't understand him - Citlali didn't try to speak or listen, she simply laid on her leather bed roll, facing away from him, and went to sleep.

The shadows grow long and then blue as the moon rises into the night sky. The dirt road becomes hard to see in the dark and Lomys waves to Citlali to get her attention then points to the ground to tell her it's time to rest. Citlali doesn't respond; she isn't looking at him. He follows her gaze and in the distance he can see the dim orange torchlights of the Sunhouse and Cuy, the people of the settlement just now lighting the nightly fires. Out in the distance the outlines of the buildings and the castle appear as a dark mound of coal at the edge of a field. Beyond the Sunhouse one can see the moon's reflection broken across the shimmering waves of the Summer Sea. The shadows of the last few ships float toward the city's docks, guided by a modest lighthouse.

"Cuy?" asks Citlali.

"Yes," says Lomys.

Citlali stares out at the city with her face in the rictus of concentration and confusion.

Lomys leaves her to look on by herself. He wades into the black underbrush among the trees and away from the road. A simple clearing for one more night's rest is all he needs. Then he'll have a Lord's judgement, whatever that is.

The two depart early next morning and reach Cuy by midday. A kind merchant gives them a ride for most of the way across the great plains that surround the Sunhouse. The merchants gives the traveling pair a few perplexed looks which make Lomys nervous but that Citlali takes no notice of. Her eyes are gorging themselves on the aesthetics of Cuy: the town, which exists at the center of a massive field adjacent to the rocky coast of the Sunset Sea, rises up from little wooden shacks that serve as trading posts or inns or houses for the smallfolk at it's edge, to two and three story stone buildings that are the homes and workshops of artisans, to the other buildings near the center, taller still, that serve as the homes of the lesser nobility; mothers call their children in for food and merchants hawk their wares and bands of riders and pigs and chickens rove here and there. Citlali stares, mouth agape, at all the commonness of man as if she'd never seen it before. Once they reach Cuy's edge Lomys thanks the merchant for his kindness and bids him farewell, ignoring the man's arched eyebrow and hurrying Citlali along. If he didn't take her by her hand - as he does now with a certain hesitation, noticing it's warmth against his cool flesh - then she wouldn't move from where she's standing. As they press on Citlali's eyes are locked upward, and so Lomys looks up too.

The Sunhouse towers above the rest of Cuy. Tall and solitary it's visible from a great distance but it's only when one is close enough - and when one has to crane one's neck upward to see its top - that the mind can take in its size. Massive banners display the herald of House Cuy - six yellow flowers in two rows of three, against a background of royal blue - prominently on all four sides of the Sunhouse, and Lomys is reminded of their words: The Radiant Bloom. At the top of the tower Lomys and Citlali can see the glass box that is the Lord's Arboretum. Lomys is reminded of the story of Old Oswell Cuy, a scholarly Lords who hated his own father, who traded all the golden dragons of his family for a glass garden instead of a garrison - books instead of brigands - forever dooming his descendents to fall to scrolls instead of swords. When he was little Lomys thought Oswell was stupid for doing so, an opinion shared by every other little boy who liked to play monster and maidens and all the old men who liked to brag about conquests. But as he gets a little older Lomys sometimes wonders about that glass garden. They say the Cuys have exotic flowers and trees from all across the world seeded there, and that even Maesters from the Citadel come to visit and study there from time to time. Lomys would like to see such a thing firsthand. From the ground where he stands all he can see is blurred green streaks of foliage and the blue of the sky behind the glass. He notices Citlali staring at the Arboretum too and wants to tell her of Oswell Cuy but he's not sure how he would start, and he feels suddenly very lonely.

As Lomys and Citlai make their away along other thoughts fill his mind. How does one beseech a Lord? Lord Cuy probably has no time to be speaking to smallfolk. He has a house and lands to protect. But surely a Lord would want to know that there are bandits in his lands wouldn't he? And it goes without saying that a Lord concerned by bandits would be just as concerned by foreign warlocks, or witches, or priestesses proselytizing on his lands, or whatever it is that Citlali is. It's true that the Sunhouse has high walls and a cadre of well trained men at its every entrance to make sure that no one enters, but a scholarly Lord would surely have a hunger for the information Lomys brings. This thought seems meager to Lomys, but as it's the only one sustaining him at the moment, he turns it over and over again in his mind.

At one of the eight gates on the eight sides of the Sunhouse wall Lomys finds two guards in steel armor with streaks of blue and yellow. Each stands at attention at either end of the gate's great wooden door. The guard nearest ot Lomys looks on at the procession of the busy street before him with a bored expression. Lomys puts his hand on Citlali's shoulder and makes a stopping motion with his hand to ask for her to wait behind him. Citlali eyes the guards' armor and then looks at Lomys. She nods but she does so in an empty, naive way. She doesn't understand that guards sometimes deal brusquely with smallfolk.

Lomys steps forward to speak to the guard alone and suddenly aware of his own bumpkinness he stands a little straighter and makes sure to speak his words clearly.

"Seven's blessings," says Lomys.

The guard doesn't notice him approach and jolts a little when addressed.

"Sevens blessings," says the guard, warily.

"I...I would seek audience with Lord Cuy," says Lomys, "bandits roam the countryside near the Sunhouse. They killed my family."

"Hrmmm," says the guard "And who are you?"

At this the guard on the other end of the gate comes over to listen. His armor clinks and clanks together as he stands beside his comrade, hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword.

"I'm Lomys, ser," says Lomys, "son of Cleyton the wheat farmer."

"Ah, I thought I recognized you," says the second guard.

"You know him?" asks the first.

"Yes - you're Layla's boy. Out from some little cottage to the east, right?" asks the second guard of Lomys.

Lomys nods.

The guard says to his compatriot, "His mother is my wife's cousin. Lomys, I'm Caleb, this is Orin."

Orin nods, still unsure.

"I'm sorry to hear about your family Lomys," says Caleb, "my wife will be sad to hear of her cousin's death. They used to play together when they were girls."

Lomys gives a weak smile.

"Who is she?" asks Orin as he points to Citlali, "is she one of the bandits?"

Lomys looks back at Citlali. She knows that she's being talked about and she perks up. Lomys notices now how people passing by in the street give her strange looks, noticing her cloak and tunic, taking note of her brown skin and black tattoos, raising eyebrows at her jade stud and pierced eyebrow. The guards look at her and tilt their heads, then they look at each other, then back at Lomys.

"Ah...no," says Lomys, "she's not a bandit...she is the other reason I wish to have audience with Lord Cuy. She had a travelling companion, a man, they came to my family's farm a week ago, a few days before the bandits showed up. Me and my - er, I mean, my father and I were bringing them here on the road when the bandits ambushed us."

"Where is she from?" asks Caleb.

"I don't know," says Lomys, "she said they were from somewhere far away, but I'm not sure where. She doesn't speak the common tongue, so it's hard to know what she's saying."

"If she doesn't speak the common tongue how do you know she said she's from far away?" asks Orin.

"She has a book," says Lomys, "she uses it to talk."

The guards look at each other.

Lomys waves Citlali over and makes page flipping motions with his hand. Citlali understands his meaning and retrieves the green leather book from her pack. She opens the book to a page of two people on a journey on one side and them meeting a pair of people with feathers in their hair on the other. Orin crosses his arms as he looks on and Caleb puts his hand to his chin.

"Have you ever seen a book with pictures like that Orin?" asks Caleb.

"Don't spend much time looking at books," says Orin.

"The colors are so bright," says Caleb to himself, "and this is how you talk to her?" This he asks of Lomys.

"I…" begins Lomys. He hesitates to let them think of him as Citlali's interpreter. "Well, yes, but this is how she talks to everyone."

"She's dumb?" asks Caleb.

"What's your name?" Orin asks Citlali.

Citlali looks to Lomys. Lomys points to himself and says his name, then he points to her.

"Citlali," she says to the guards. She points to herself for emphasis.

"That's a strange name," says Caleb.

"Never heard of anyone named Citlali before," says Orin.

Lomys isn't sure how to respond to their incredulity, so he lets the guards mull all of this over in silence.

"She must be Essosi," says Orin with finality.

"I've been to Bravos once" says Caleb, "never seen tattoos like that, even over there."

Citlali flips through the book. She opens to a picture with a person at the center of a circle of people. The other people bow to the person at the center. On the other page is an image of two people shaking hands, with crowds of people on either side. Citlali points to these two pictures then points up at the Sunhouse.

"Tlatoani?" asks Citlali.

The guards look to Lomys, who shrugs.

"I think she wants to speak to Lord Cuy too," says Lomys.

The guards confer privately with one another for what seems like a few minutes. When they're done Orin looks back at Lomys and Citlali, then calls up for the gates to be opened.

"I'll tell the guards inside that you want to see Lord Cuy," says Caleb, "they'll show the way there once you're within the walls."

"Thank you ser," says Lomys, "I'm glad the Lord can see me on such short notice."

"Don't call me ser, I ain't no knight," says Caleb, "And a word to the wise: I imagine his Lordship will want to know about bandits in his lands, but I think he'll be much more interested in your friend Citlali."

Lomys is startled by this and takes a step closer to Citlali. Without meaning to he finds himself holding her hand again.

"Hah," says Caleb, "that's not what I meant boy. He's already got a Lysene mistress for that."

Citlali is surprised to find his hand in hers at first, but after a moment she looks at Lomys curiously. Lomys lets go and pretends not to notice her noticing.

Orin the gate guardsmen shows Lomys and Citlali into the castle courtyard. The outer area around the wall of the castle is rough ground, marred by the constant footfall of man and horse, but as one moves closer to the Sunhouse at the center the rough ground gives way to flower beds in all kinds of colors and well manicured trees growing up from perfectly circular plots in the cobbled interior - even the air becomes sweeter, perfumed by the blooming aromatics. Highborn people wander here and there dressed in finery, the women preferring dresses in shades of blue and yellow and the men wearing sashes and military attire in same. Although Lomys tries not to eavesdrop he can't help but notice how they speak in serious tones of business and politics with fancy words his ears have never heard before. Near the base of the Sunhouse there are a few buildings that serve as homes or workshops to the skilled craftsmen in the employ of the Cuys, every one of them much finer and grander than any of the buildings outside the castle walls, often consisting of multiple gables and wide, clear, windows. Citlali gawks at all of these things, her eyes wide and prone to darting here and there like a child's. Lomys himself cannot help but do the same. He's never been inside the castle walls before either - never been this close to a castle - and while he's heard stories of the sights to prepare, they are just as dazzling to him as to her.

Orin hands them over to a pair of guards that lead them to the base of the high tower. There, by one of the four great stone stairways on the four sides of the Sunhouse, the guards ask Lomys and Citlali to wait with their things on a stone bench until Lord Cuy can see them. The two gawking guests do as they're told.

As they wait highborn walk by, their conversation slowing as they approach until it comes to a brief pause as they notice the color of Citlali's skin and the jewelry about her face. Citlali notices them and smiles but this causes the onlookers to look away as if they never noticed her, re-engaging in their conversations. This happens again a few times before Citlali stops smiling at onlookers and pretends not to notice that they notice her. Lomys is thankful when she does this, it draws less attention. Any one of these highborn could probably ask a guard to imprison them right then and there, and Lomys doesn't know enough about highborn mannerisms to know what is or isn't bad manners.

After what feels like hours another pair of guards retrieve them and escort them up the stone stairway through the entrance into the great tower. Once inside a labyrinth of lavish hallways draped in expensive rugs and carved motifs of plants of various kinds confuses Lomys' sense of direction. Past a great many torches and banners and pictures and heirlooms, the two guard escorts and the two guests finally reach a great spiral staircase made of stone at what appears to be the tower's center. The way up the stairs is grueling and is made worse by the fact that Lomys and Citlali still have their packs with them. The guards, although they wear chainmail and carry spears with them, seem unfazed by the climb up. At very the top - after a number of breaks for Lomys and Citlali to sit and rest on one of the landings that leads to one of the labyrinthine floors - there is a landing where guards stand dutifully at either side of a gate that leads to another, smaller, spiral staircase made of wrought iron. Lomys and Citlali are urged forward by the armed guards, and so they go up these last stairs and into the Arboretum.

The first thing Lomys notices is the heat: the air is thick and humid and the warmth of it seeps into his being. His clothes feel heavy and his hair wilts and sticks to his skin. Around him the sights of flowers, much more varied and strange and alien than the garden outside, reach up and over him from all sides, growing in plots made to look like wilderness, climbing trees and trellises to form green walls speckled with colorful blooms here and there. On either side of him Lomys can see winding walkways made of marble - he wouldn't know marble if it crushed his skull but that's the word that comes to mind - that are lined with trees of all kinds on either side. Before him is a wide path leading to a throne and a court bounded by thick hedges with leaves in a dozen styles, garnished here and there with the bright yellow flowers of House Cuy's sigil. Lomys, amazed but withered by the heat, looks over to Citlali, who looks bright and amazed beside him.

Ahead of him Lomys can hear an older man speak:

"My lord, the young man that came to our guards," says the voice, aged but booming.

Another voice answers, but too distant for Lomys to make out what it said. As he and Citlali are escorted toward the court, the conversation comes into hearing distance.

"-ways that the men can be used more effectively," says a voice, monotone and somewhat nasally, "so as to avoid these sorts of losses."

"Well said milord," says a different voice, this one a bit hoarse but with a spry energy, "I can write the Citadel. I am sure they have some books on stratagems what will prove useful in the future."

Lomys can see six figures before him. He knows that of all of them Lord Branston Cuy, current heir of Old Lord Oswell's Sunhouse, must be the man sitting at the center, for that is where a Lord always sits. On a wrought iron throne painted a dark blue, his brown hair going grey, years of luxury pounds on his frame, and wearing a gold necklace with sapphire flowers in an inverted homage to his herald, Branston Cuy looks on warily. To Lord Cuy's left he sees the woman who must be Lady Cuy, an older woman but still noticeably younger than the Lord, yellow haired and thin to the point of frailty, seated alongside him with a young woman who must be their daughter. She's about the same age as Lomys, her hair golden with streaks of brown, and from the generousness of her figure Lomys imagines she's inherited something of her father's appetite. Both are dressed like proper ladies, the mother in blue and yellow and the daughter in green and yellow, and they acknowledge the guests with a slight nod. Citlali fixates instantly on the hair of these two women, her eyes darting back and forth in disbelief. She looks to Lomys who only now realizes that these might be some of the only yellow-haired people she's come into close contact with. To Lord Cuy's right Lomys sees a balding Maester dressed in crisp and clean robes, the links in his chain all polished, standing up almost on his tiptoes to catch a better view of their entrance. Alongside him two knights in full plate armor - who Lomys imagines must be cooking alive in this heat - stand perfectly still as if on guard. All of the assembled regard Citlali with intense curiosity, and Lomys not at all.

Lomys bows. Seeing this, Citlali follows suit.

"The captain tells me your family was slain by bandits," says Lord Cuy. His voice carries the slight garble that sometimes accompanies gluttony.

Lomys looks to his right and sees the source of the booming voice that heralded him, a stocky man, older than Lomys but not by too much, with dark cropped hair. Citlali gazes at her reflection in the man's clean steel armor.

"My condolences," continues Lord Cuy, "I've asked Captain Durand to send some outriders to search the countryside and ensure the bandits see the Father's justice."

"Th-thank you Lord Cuy," says Lomys. He gives two quick bows, "thank you. I hope that, that in the spirit of-"

"The captain also made mention of your curious companion," says Lord Cuy.

Lomys look to Citlali.

The Lord addresses Citlali in Valerian, and then in something that Lomys thinks is probably Ibbenese. The Maester also says some things, first in one language and then another, neither of which Lomys recognizes. Citlali blinks, looks at them both and then at Lomys.

"Where did she say she was from?" asks Lord Cuy.

"Ah...from somewhere far away," says Lomys, "I think she - that perhaps, the bandits followed her and her friend to us-"

"Her companion is dead?" asks the Maester.

"Yes, slain by the bandits," says Lomys.

"And his body?" asks the Maester.

"Buried," says Lomys. Unsure about this line of questioning he offers: "out by the road where we were attacked."

The Lord and the Maester nod and place their hands on their chins to think in unison.

Citlali says a few words in her tongue.

"What did she say there?" asks Lord Cuy.

"I think it's a greeting," says Lomys, "that's how she says hello."

"Sevens blessings," says Lord Cuy and nods his head. The rest of his court follow the lead of their Lord.

"Where does she say she's from?" asks Lord Cuy.

"From the west," says Lomys.

"How do you know that's what she said?" asks the Maester.

"She uses a book to speak," says Lomys. He makes a book opening motion and Citlali nods and reaches for her pack.

The moment she does so the two armored knights place their hands on their swords' hilts and step forward to enter their stances, their armor jostling and clanking as they do so. The Cuys, the guards, the knights, Lomys, Citlali - all become very still.

"What does she have in that pack!?" demands Lord Cuy.

"I...she has, she has her book-" begins Lomys.

"Weapons?" asks Lord Cuy.

"Ah- a dagger- " says Lomys.

Lomys can hear the little clinks of metal gloves tightening their grip.

"To defend ourselves, to defend ourselves milord," says Lomys, "I still have my hatchet in here too milord - forgive me milord we meant no offense-"

"Put both your packs down and step back twenty paces," says Lord Cuy. No irritation or anger in his voice this time, just a firm calm.

Lomys takes off his pack and takes Citlali's pack out of her hands, placing them both together in front of them. Citlali doesn't resist - her eyes are on the steel-plated knights. Placing his forearm on Citlali's collar Lomys gently moves both of them back, making very sure to count each of his steps.

With a nod of the head from Lord Cuy the knights move forward, one of them keeping his gaze on Lomys and Citlali while the other rifles through their things. The knight finds the hatchet and the dagger and kicks the rest out of the way. He kneels before the wrought iron throne and offers Lord Cuy the two weapons he's found. The hatchet he tosses lazily to one side but the dagger he holds gingerly, his eyes gazing deep into the inky blackness of the obsidian. The first knight, hand on his sword, still stands unmoving in front of Lomys.

"Please," says Citlali.

"She can speak?" asks Lady Cuy.

"Please," says Citlali, "no bad, no bad!"

Lomys gives her a look but Citlali ignores him.

"Tlatoani," begins Citlali, "we, we bring gift, I bring gift!"

The court looks to Lomys.

"What is she talking about?" asks Lord Cuy.

"The book," says Lomys, "her book, the one she uses to talk with us. When she and her friend first came to our farm they gave us a book."

"What sort of book is it?" asks Lord Cuy. Then to one of the knights, "Ser Durand, when you found the barbarian ship, did they have books?"

"Yes milord," says the knight standing ready before Lomys and Citlali, "a book with green leather binding and a tough parchment I couldn't recognize."

"Why didn't you mention this before?" asks Lord Cuy.

"Forgive me milord," says Ser Durand, "It slipped my mind. I was distracted by the slaughter of my battalion at the hands of these barbarians."

"I will not warn you to watch your tongue again Ser Durand," says Lord Cuy with the same calm he told Lomys to take twenty paces back.

"I looked through one of those books milord," says the other knight, still kneeling before his lord as when he offered him the two weapons, "forgive me for not mentioning it earlier milord, there was so much to relay, but I believe that those books might be magic-"

"Magic?" says the Maester with surprise, "milord, the idea that these barbarians could have magic spellbooks is-"

"Let Ser Orme continue," says Lord Cuy.

"I saw demonic writing milord," begins Ser Orme, "impossible beasts and monstrous plants, and then paintings of a fallen world…"

The Sunhouse is so silent now that the low bustle of the town far below can be heard.

"...fields of food turning to rot, beasts consuming one another, barbarian murderers wandering around, slaughtering the innocent...and a great dark ring in the sky that seemed as if to bleed down from the heavens onto the earth."

"And I was not told of this?!" says Lord Cuy, incredulous and seemingly to everyone, "I can't believe I have to sit here and witness House Cuy fall over itself as it struggles with it's scabbard, again. When I ask my knights for a military report I expect it to contain all relevant information, do I make myself clear?"

Ser Orme bends down in a slightly deeper kneel and mutters something while Ser Durand manages a stilted yes milord.

"Now," says Lord Cuy, "you there, farm boy."

"Milord?" says Lomys.

"Do you know this woman to be capable of magic?" asks Lord Cuy.

He's suspected it, certainly. Lomys thinks now to when he first found the book, how the images that Ser Orme described alarmed him. But he'd never seen Citlali or Acatzin do anything that looked like sorcery, not even when they were facing down death by banditry. Citlali's dragonglass dagger is a cruel looking thing, and perhaps that is magic in itself, but-

"No," says Lomys, "I've not seen her cast spells or incantations or anything like that."

"Has she engaged in any other...abnormal behavior?" asks Lord Cuy.

"Ah, well no, milord," says Lomys.

"And, since in the time she's been in your custody, has she communicated with the rest of her ship?"

Her ship? What ship?

"N-no, milord," says Lomys.

Lord Cuy bids his Maester come closer and the two exchange a few words. During this discussion Ser Orme retrieves the green leather book from the Citlali's pack and gingerly hands it to the Lord and Maester. As they flip through the pages both their eyes go wide. At this Citlali and Lomys look at one another and see their nerves mirrored in the other.


	3. Part 3

[Some animals, such as ravens, are present all over the world. With time their lineages will split and come back together again in a process known as speciation reversal.]

* * *

FOUR FIGHTERS FLEE CASTLE STARFALL

When the Needles go to negotiate with the bulk of the fighters Nochtli, Mixkoatl, Tizoc, and Dohate, off duty, wander around the outside of the gate of the indigene fortress. Nochtli manages to befriend one of the indigene dogs - a ridiculously wooly thing, dark brown, some stray from near the edges of the settlement - and the four Blade fighters take turns throwing scraps up in the air for it to catch.

"I'll name him Xocolate," says Nochtli, "because of the color of his fur."

He tosses a scrap of dried fish up into a tall soft arc which the dog traces with his eyes, snatching the fish out of the air in one clean bite.

"I wouldn't go naming it right away," says Mixkoatl, "it'll probably leave once you stop giving it food."

"Naming something gives it meaning," says Tizoc sagely.

"You think Tenoch is gonna let you keep a dog?" asks Dohate.

"He'll be outside. It's not like I'll be taking him on to the ship," says Nochtli. He had a dog once as a boy and it's something of a relief to see that even here in this foreign land, dogs still behave like dogs.

"He'll have someone shoot it with a bow just to be rid of the ticks," says Mixkoatl.

"We're going to be here for at least another three months, probably more," begins Nochtli, "Captain Tenoch can't keep us from having dogs for that long. Can he now boy?"

Xocolate wags his tail excitedly. After moment Xocolate stops still and his ears perk up. Sounds of yelling voices cut into the air as a commotion spills from within the castle's walls and into the outer courtyard. Nochtli and the others rush back to the gate to see what the commotion is but Xocolate darts away in the other direction, off into a small wood away from the castle walls.

The fighters come around the gate and witness the unfolding mob. A crowd of men in armor and swords push back out of the great central doorway of the castle, forming a shifting circle around a single man. Nochtli recognizes him, it's Captain Tenoch! The Blade captain bleeds from a slash that's cut through his salt armor and carved out a piece of his chest. Despite the wound Tenoch keeps his shield up and his macuahuitl in stance. When one of the indigene gets too close Tenoch bats down their sword - the macuahuitl is longer, if incapable of piercing - and whips the obsidian edge through the air. The indigene are quick to fall back out of range since, judging by their bloodied armor, they've learned just how sharp Atlacal obsidian can be.

All the small business of the courtyard comes to a standstill. Realization washes over the artisans and journeymen and they rush out of the way to give the fighting indigene more room, shouting something in their tongue that Nochtli doesn't understand as two other Blades cut their way through the inside of the castle, rushing to the aid of their Captain. Captain Tenoch yells something at the top of his lungs but it's meaning is muffled by all the baying war cries of the indigene fighters. Nochtli breaks into a full sprint and snatches up his macuahuitl as he and the others pass by the makeshift camp they made against the castle wall.

The fighting comes to a lull and then to a stand still as Tenoch and the two Blades brandish their macuahuitl and maces at the indigene iron-swordsmen, who do the same. All are in stance, all ready to strike, but none is willing to be the one to break the tension and allow for a riposte. Tenoch goes to change his stance but slips and staggers as he tries to correct himself. An indigene steps in to take advantage of the opportunity and lifts his iron greatsword high but Tenoch whips the macana across his neck just before the swing, splattering the black obsidian with red. He shouts his orders again and this time Nochtli and his compatriots hear it clearly:

"TELL THE OTHERS! GO!"

The indigene give a war cry in response and, seeing his death before him, having made clear his order, Tenoch dives into the crowd of indigene iron-swordsmen. Nochtli loses him in the ensuing chaos. One of the Blades jumps to his Captain's aid but the other is penned in by some of the indigene artisans in the courtyard who've taken up arms against the Atlacal.

Still in a full run Nochtli feels a hand grab at his shoulder and force him around, almost tripping him. Nochtli flicks his macuahuitl back behind him at the ready but it's only Tizoc.

"Nochtli," he says, "you heard the Captain! We have to warn the ship!"

He looks back and sees Mixkoatl and Dohate are hopping up and down and motioning for him to hurry up as Tizoc looks around them to see if any of the indigene have taken notice of them yet. All of the guards have rushed to the castle entrance, leaving the rest of the outer courtyard bare. For now the archers on the walls are fixed on the fighting.

Nochtli switches his momentum and heads back out toward the gate along with the others. This time when they pass by their makeshift camp they snatch whatever packs were left ready and cut to the right to head for the gates. A low wooden rumble creaks into existence as a few indigene work the wooden winch to close the castle gates. From up above Nochtli hears indigene shouting in alarm, pointing to him and the others, so he slings his pack tight and holds his shield at the ready to catch arrows. The two indigene closing the wooden doors must be off duty as their iron armor is only half on, allowing Mixkoatl and Dohate to cut each of them down in a single slash. Screams ensue as the indigene witness their companions separated at the waist, their torsos falling apart from their legs. Mixkoatl and Dohate dart past the opening in the gate while Nochtli and Tizoc follow just behind them, hopping over the two corpses.

Once past the gates the four Blades scatter, running in a serpentine pattern to avoid being struck. Nochtli keeps his shield up with his left and uses his right for balance as arrows flit into the earth around him. We just need to make it to the woods, Nochtli thinks in a way that is both clear and panicked, we make it to the woods and they can't shoot us, we can lose them in the trees -

An arrow jerks his right arm forward, piercing his bicep. The sound of it rushing through the air follows after the pain and it takes his eyes a second to put together what the rest of his senses are telling him. The pain stumbles him for his next few steps but it doesn't break his run - there's too much blood pumping too hard for his heart to let him stop now. More arrows fall at his feet behind him and instinctively Nochtli raises his shield up to protect the back of his neck. The forest isn't too far now - up ahead he can see Dohate breaking away from the rest of them, outpacing the arrowfall. Mixkoatl follows behind him and Tizoc behind him, so only Nochtli is aware that he's been struck. Warm blood runs down his arm and is wicked away by the rushing wind so that little red drops splatter against his tawny salt armor.

Another volley of arrows come down, this time sparing Nochtli but catching Mixkoatl. He cries out in pain and tumbles to the ground. Nochtli slides to a stop beside him and holds his shield up to protect them as best as he can.

"Those raggedy half-faced fuckers got me," shouts Mixkoatl, half terrified, half delirious, "I can't believe they got me, I can't believe-"

"Mixkoatl!" shouts Nochtli, "can you get up?!"

By now the others are around them as well, their shields up in a defensive formation. Mixkoatl stumbles to get up on his feet but Nochtli can see the pain flash across his face.

"I can't run," says Mixkoatl, "I can't run!"

"Tizoc, get him up!" barks Nochtli. He stands to better shield them as Tizoc slings Mixkoatl's arm over his shoulder. At a mad hop, Mixkoatl and Tizoc make the last of the distance into the woods and take refuge in the underbrush just behind the first line of trees as Nochtli and Dohate keep their shields up and over them.

Once in cover Tizoc lets Mixkoatl down to the ground.

"We have to keep moving," says Nochtli, "they're going to come out here looking for us-"

"I can't keep moving," says Mixkoatl, "they got me, they got me, raggedy, half-faced, fuckers-"

"Rip the arrows out and we move," says Nochtli. Now that he has a chance to catch his breath he can feel the column of aching fire that is the arrow lodged in his arm, so painful that he regrets his words. Rip it out? But it's too late to take the words back now.

"That won't help," says Tizoc, "the damage has already been done."

"Maybe not," says Dohate, "but there's no sense in letting it stick out to be caught on a passing branch."

Nochtli offers his arm to Tizoc who, mercifully, breaks the arrow's tail off and rips out the head in one quick motion. Nochtli gasps in pain and presses his good hand to the wound to staunch the bleeding. His blood seeps up from in between his fingers.

"The arrow will have to come out before the blood priests can do anything anyway," says Nochtli, more to himself than to Mixkoatl.

Mixkoatl grunts.

"Alright," he says, "do it, go. Do it and let's go!"

Tizoc executes the same procedure on Mixkoatl to extract the arrow from his calf and Mixkoatl clenches his teeth to stifle a whimper.

"Alright, good," says Nochtli, dazed from the pain wracking his arm, "good. We can make it back to the ship. But we need to go now."

From the castle the four Blade fighters hear the sound of thunder as if from a great distance - shaking through the ground instead of crashing through the air. Nochtli looks out toward the sound and spilling into the open field from the gates he sees the indigene deer-beasts, each carrying a single rider. For the first time the Atlacal witness them at full gallop , eight of them, moving across the ground with a disgusting speed, their hooves slamming into the earth. For a stunned moment it's all Nochtli can do to watch the spectacle of it, to see these men move with their beasts as one, four legs trampling forward as two arms hold a loft a heavy iron sword.

"Get me up," says Mixkoatl, "let's go let's go LET'S GO."

Someone grabs Nochtli by the arm and yanks him back to his senses.

The underbrush is rough and the light comes in mottled through the tree canopy, so that in in his hurried rush Nochtli has to guess at the footing on the forest floor. Mixkoatl keeps up at his side - each step clearly hurting him but his spirit too hungry for life to stop. Tizoc and Dohate crash through the ahead of them and swivel their heads as they look for somewhere to hide. Behind them the thundering gallop of the deer-beasts gets closer and closer then becomes muffled by the forest.

The four macuahuitl fighters run until their lungs are on fire and then some so that they have to stop when Tizoc falls to the ground.

"Tizoc," says Dohate, "Tizoc! Are you alright?"

Tizoc staggers to his feet breathing hard all the way through it.

"I'm fine- I'm - I just need to rest,"says Tizoc through labored breaths, "just need to rest.'

"I don't hear the- the deer," says Mixkoatl, "they got close but, then..."

"I don't hear them either," says Nochtli. Then, in a whisper, "maybe they're already in here."

All turn up at the forest that envelopes them. Everything in this place is so alien - the not-quite-ferns that grow from the ground, the oddly shaped flowers underfoot, the way the leaves of the trees fan out - yet all the rhythms feel somehow the same. There are birds crying far in the distance, the dead foliage still gathers underfoot, and all around is the sense that little creatures watch them from their hovels.

In the distance the galloping of deer-beasts spreads out around them but does not sound as if it approaches.

"They're going to surround us," whispers Nochtli.

Mixkoatl lets himself down to the floor, careful to keep his punctured calf untouched.

"What do we do now?" says Mixkoatl, "I- I- don't know if I can keep up-"

"We just make it to the Loatilistli then we're golden," says Nochtli, "I remember seeing this forest on the way in, we can stay inside it almost all the way back to the docks."

"They're probably on their way their now to cut us off," says Dohate.

"Well we don't have any other choice," says Nochtli. Suddenly aware of the volume of his voice he whispers: "there is no other way. We make it to the dock and alert the ship. We can't stay here, look around you - this is their regular hunting grounds! We need to get through this place."

The four Atlacal fighters look at each other, weighing this.

"Their deer-beasts are unarmored," notes Tizoc, "how tough could they be? Obsidian works fine for butchering bison as well as ordinary deer, why couldn't it cut through these deer-beasts just as easily?"

"You saw what I saw," says Dohate, "they move just as fast as bison but with a pair of arms swinging a sword as well! And besides, when was the last time you saw a man face down a charging bison and win?"

"When the seventeenth Tlon went north to conquer-" begins Tizoc.

"Don't give me fairy tales!" interrupts Dohate, "I mean with your own eyes. A full grown bison charging at an open gallop against a man with just a macuahuitl-"

"This world is made of illusions-" begnis Tizoc.

"And even if it was possible! Who knows what these deer-lords can make their beasts do!" says Dohate.

"Quiet!" hisses Mixkoatl.

Silence falls between the four. When nothing comes out of the brush to kill them, the silence is broken by the impossible cry of some exotic bird. In the distance the thundering deer-beasts continue their sweep around the wood.

Nochtli points himself toward the town and docks at the far end of the wood and motions for the others to follow.

After a few hours the four Blades come upon the edge of the wood, where the forest gives way to a rocky shore. Out on the water Nochtli sees the Loatilistli, already set sail, with two indigene ships giving chase. From this distance he can see that one of the galleys is damaged, it's aft dipping into the water, while the second appears to be slowing down and letting the Loatilistli break away. It's still farther up bay, to their right. It might pass near enough that it sees them, but it might not.

Relieved to see that at least ship hasn't been taken Nochtli lets himself down to the ground to rest. His head is swimming and his vision is blurred. Too much blood lost, he thinks to himself. With his good arm he drinks from his canteen but the water does little to help him. He tries not to look at his bad arm. To his right he sees Mixkoatl limping along, only just now catching up to the rest of them. At first he was careful to try and keep his footsteps light and spare himself some pain but now he drags his mangled leg behind him, uncaring. Blood drips from the open wound, spilling on the green leaves and disappearing into the dark earth and he allows himself to collapse onto the ground.

"We're here," says Mixkoatl in a daze.

Tizoc and Dohate, uninjured, stay on their feet and peer out to where the Loatilistli sails.

"Dohate and I can swim out to the ship," says Tizoc, "and come back with help."

"Will the ship be able to send help?" asks Nochtli.

"Well, it's not as if either you will make the swim over," says Dohate, "not like this."

Nochtli and Mixkoatl look at each other. There's no sense in denying the truth.

"Go," says Nochtli. Go? But just like with the arrows before, it's too late now. The word has been spoken.

Mixkoatl sighs.

"I'm not even a good swimmer anyway," says Mixkoatl, "I would have had trouble even if I wasn't dying."

"You're not dying," says Dohate.

"Go," repeats Nochtli.

Tizoc and Dohate leave behind their macuahuitl and their salt armor and dive the ten feet into the sea below. Since they'll be visible once they swim out to the ship Nochtli and Mixkoatl gather their things and hide themselves in a concavity created by earth and roots. This way, if any of the indigene come looking, they'd have to walk all the way out to the cliff here and then turn back to spot them. More than enough time to cut them down. And if they come with friends?, Nochtli asks himself.

"Do you think they're going to make it?" asks Mixkoatl.

Nochtli listens to the waves crash against the shore. In the distance the Loatilistli leaves the wreckage of it's pursuers for the sharks who, like him, can now smell the iron smell of blood. He finds himself suddenly thinking about his little coastal village along the gulf, his family's little garden of tomatoes and marjoram and peppers, the mouth watering scent of grilled fish. If he closes his eyes and concentrates, it's almost as if he's there right now. The waves sound the same here as they did there. He imagines himself now seated against the criss-crossed bark of the Old Man of the Forest, waiting for his mother to call him in for dinner.

ALLYRIA MUST TREAT WITH A SNAKE

In the evening, after the foreign delegation murdered one of their own for their pagan ritual, Allyria presides over the burial of sixty one men. After they were pulled out of the blood soaked solar the Silent Sisters took them to the courtyard so that they could clean the red off of their bodies. When there were not enough Silent Sisters to reach them all in a timely manner Allyria pressed all the servants of strong constitution to aid them. She herself only watched the cleaning of the bodies for so long - she had to go and send word that the smallfolk workers would be contracted to dig new graves near the Starfall's sepulcher, out beyond the walls of Castle Starfall proper.

Dressed in black Allyria stands alongside Edric who wears vestments in same, alongside a small entourage of the nobles of the court, watching from a low rocky hill as the smallfolk go to work. It's not often that men die putting themselves so directly between their liege lords and their enemies and Allyria has decreed that these guardsmen be buried near the crypt of all the old Dayne lords. Before long the first of the servants come carrying the bodies out from the gates of the castle walls and lower them down into their graves as the Septons recite the Petition of the Stranger and toss down the first handful of dirt.

The graveyard is on a plateau on the northern end of the island the castle sits on. Here the mists seem to gather, so that in the twilight of dusk the Sepulcher at the center seems to rise up from smoke, surrounded by an army of markers in the shape of seven pointed stars. Allyria reflects on the times when she would wander through this graveyard with her sister Ashara, when they would try to prove their bravery to one another by wandering deeper and deeper into the graveyard at sunset. Sometimes Arthur would come to play with them, but usually he was practicing with Adon and Gerold. Darrion Brownstone would play with them sometimes as well, but only when coaxed. Darrion was always afraid of breaking the rules, even if Ashara and Allyria assured him that they would take the blame if they were ever caught out. He would only go as far as the first row of gravestones and no further, for fear of upsetting the spirits residing there.

Allyria thinks of him now, finds her mind racing with the possibilities of what he's learning from the prisoner. The dead deserve their rites, and she tries to keep her mind on prayer, but she's hungry to know why this happened, what caused that bloody display of blasphemy and violence. I should go now, see what he's learned, she thinks to herself. But what does she know of interrogation? What does she know of foreigners, she who's lived within Starfall all her life? No, those matters are best left to more experienced men. Allyria's served well minding the coin in the coffers and the squabbling of the lesser lords, but when it comes to war, since the Sword of the Morning is dead, it's Ser Brownstone that has the expertise in securing the prisoners and Maester Cidrio in understanding them.

Tomorrow morning the small council will convene and Brownstone will give his report. Then she'll weigh the options and see what needs to be done about a rogue swan ship loose in the bay. And if Edric wants to play Lordling again?, Allyria asks herself. Well, he's not Lord just yet - he'll have to mind his aunt's orders. Her little Edric will understand. She doesn't know how he'll react to her overstepping him, but he'll understand. She looks over to him now, standing next to her, listening attentively to the Septim's words, his eyes understanding of the tragedy before them. He was a squire and it's hardened him, he will be a good lord, Allyria thinks to herself, just not quite yet.

Early the next day Allyria is up and walking through the castle halls just as the sun crests over the horizon. As she hurries past the windows she spots the long shadows of stones and hills out on the landscape. Voices echo throughout the halls as she nears the small council room.

Inside of it tall ceilings provide for ample walls where maps and diagrams are hung, depicting the various well-tread strategies of House Dayne. A wide window opens eastward so that one can look across the water and see the dry, rust-colored Dornish landscape. Under this there is the long pale-wood table that hosts conversation. Ser Brownstone, Maester Cidrio, and Edric are already seated at the table. Along with them are two of House Dayne's most loyal bannermen - the lanky Stony Ser Ferdand and the squat Salty Ser Rorrigo, each dressed in dark brown leathers and purple sashes that signify their loyalty to Starfall. Although Allyria isn't late, she finds the council already embroiled in conversation.

"We can just tell her later-," says Ser Rorrigo.

"Tell me what?" asks Allyria.

The bannermen cease their talking to stand and bow their heads at the arrival of the stewardess of Starfall. Ser Brownstone and the Maester follow suit. Edric simply looks up at her and smiles.

"A Sarella Sand arrived earlier this morning in the twilight," says Ser Brownstone.

"Oberyn's daughter?" asks Allyria.

"The very same," says Ser Brownstone. Although he plays the stoic warrior when Allyria looks in his dark brown eyes she sees concern.

"She wishes to address the small council," says Ser Ferdand.

"She speaks for House Martell," says Ser Rorrigo.

Could this...the Darkstar?, Allyria thinks to herself

"Y-yes," says Allyria, "forgive me my lords, I'd expected to discuss the foreigners and their-"

"We've already discussed that," says Edric cheerfully.

Allyria tilts her head at hearing his voice.

"Yes," says Maester Cidrio, amused, "the young Lord Dayne was the first of us here, he and Ser Brownstone and I discussed the search effort down the bay-"

"We were waiting for you before beginning the interrogation summaries of course my Lady," says Ser Brownstone with a bow of his head, "but then your bannermen brought word of Sarella's arrival."

Ferdand and Rorrigo look at her now, bowing their heads once more.

"We'll hear her speak first," says Allyria, "Oberyn's daughters don't leave the Sunspear without good reason."

The guards are sent and the guards return, this time with the Sand Snake in tow.

Allyria's never seen Sarella Sand before, although she'd heard that she was born of a trader from the Summer Isles that Oberyn managed to find himself in bed with. He managed to find himself in those sorts of places a lot it seemed. That Sarella Sand has skin the color of teak is not surprising, nor is her short kinked black hair, nor her onyx like eyes. What is surprising is how Oberyn appears in her face, like a shade. Allyria remembers his sharp nose and his viper's eyes and the two are almost perfectly recreated within the dark frame of this bastard Islander girl. She wears a green dress in the classic Dornish style - flowing cloth and exposed shoulders - and only a few modest gold rings as jewelry. Her poise is confident and knowing and her eyes smile much too much.

"Lady Sarella Sand, daughter of Oberyn Martell," says Ser Brownstone as an introduction.

Sarella gives a perfunctory curtsy.

"I hope the Seven find you well," says Sarella, "I bring news for the Lord of Starfall."

"I am-" begins Edric.

"The Lord of Starfall is not of age yet" says Allyria, "I am still stewardess of Starfall, at least until the coming year."

Edric's face relaxes slightly. If Allyria didn't know him better, she'd hardly notice the way he doesn't look at her.

"What news do you bring Sarella Sand?" asks Edric. He sits straight up in his chair.

"My uncle, Prince Dorian, bid me to return to the Sunspear. As Castle Starfall was on my way back, he thought it would be highly improper if I did not stop by and pay respects to House Dayne."

"House Dayne is honored to receive the esteem of House Martell," says Allyria. She smiles and nods, prompting the rest of the council to do the same.

"He also wants to know what you intend to do about your cousin Gerold Dayne," says Sarella.

"Gerold Dayne?" asks Edric.

"The Darkstar," whispers Allyria to herself.

"Oh, yes," says Edric, thinking the whisper meant for him, "what about cousin Gerold?"

Sarella gives him a curious look.

"My lord," says Sarella, "the Darkstar is guilty of the murder of Ser Arys Oakheart, knight of the Kingsguard, and guilty of an attempt on the life of the princess Myrcella Baratheon. Has this news not reached you?"

Maester Cidrio busies himself with his chain. Ser Brownstone looks to Allyria, but Allyria pretends not to notice him.

"No," says Edric, "I was away serving as a squire to Lord Beric Dondarrion."

Sarella's curious gaze turns to Allyria now.

"An attempt on the life of a princess is a serious charge," says Sarella, "and my uncle Prince Doran aims to see that justice is done. As the Darkstar is of House Dayne's cadet branch, my Prince thought it best if House Dayne would aid in finding him. If only to avoid the appearance of conspiracy among the other houses of Dorne."

Allyria gives an anxious smile.

"Were you aware the Darkstar made an attempt on the princess's life?" asks Sarella.

Although the question comes from the mouth of some bastard girl, Allyria knows that the question was born on the lips of Prince Doran - and Prince Doran doesn't ask questions he doesn't know the answers to.

"We'd heard rumors," says Allyria, "but we didn't think them true. This is why we didn't trouble you with them, my little lord. Gerold can be...abrasive, and people start rumors to try and hurt him. We sent a raven to High Hermitage asking for an explanation, given the seriousness of the charges, but we received no word."

Sarella's gaze wanders to the Maester, then to the three Sers. Ferdand and Rorrigo raise their eyebrows. Brownstone does nothing.

"Rest assured that the Daynes of Castle Starfall knew nothing of the Darkstar's actions," says Allyria.

Sarella Sand smiles a secretive smile.

"Do not be alarmed my lady," says Sarella, "my uncle the Prince doesn't think you guilty. That's why he knows he can count on you to lend your bannermen to help wrest High Hermitage from the rogue Dayne."

"Of course," says Edric emphatically, "the Lord of House Dayne is responsible for his cadet branch, and he will see that these wrongs are righted."

Ser Brownstone leans forward in surprise.

"My lord," he begins, "I- we haven't yet named a new Sword of the Morning, not to mention that our garrison is still in disarray-"

"You are truly a good and just Lord, Edric Dayne of Castle Starfall," interrupts Sarella, "the Prince of Dorne will be pleased to know House Dayne remains loyal in these trying times."

The Prince of Dorne won't have us replaced, Allyria thinks to herself, that's what she means.

"House Dayne will always remain loyal to the Sunspear," says Allyria, "and our Lord is indeed a good Lord. But we have problems of our own - raiders besiege our coasts and terrorize our lands, our men are required here."

"I'm sure that your fighting men are more than able to handle a few bandits," says Sarella Sand.

"They are more than bandits," says Allyria, "and we can't say how dangerous they are yet. Lending our troops now may result in the sacking of Castle Starfall - and would deprive the Sunspear of an able ally."

Sarella smiles.

"Is this true, Lord Dayne?" asks Sarella.

"It is," says Edric, "these raiders are different. Yes, we will need to keep some of our men near for protection, of course." He gives a quick nod of agreement, "A good lord must also defend his lands."

"Of course, of course," says Sarella. The Sand Snake's eyes focus on the little lord. Allyria imagines a forked tongue tasting the air.

"However, if I were to return to my uncle with news that House Dayne has elected not to offer it's full aid he may become suspicious. He may believe, as some of the more skeptical members of his court do, that the Darkstar acts on word from Castle Starfall, for unfriendly reasons," says Sarella, "We know that's not true of course."

"Of course," says Edric, nodding to himself.

"Would your Lordship help me understand the nature of the threat then?" she asks, "Perhaps the Sunspear can offer aid once the Darkstar is dealt with, to help you with these more-than-bandits."

"Certainly," says Edric, "we were about to go over the summaries of the interrogations."

Edric offers a seat with an open hand. Allyria goes to say something but she hesitates too long - could this bastard islander really know? - and just like that, Sarella Sand finds herself a seat at the table of the small council.

"Your report, Ser Brownstone," says Sarella, "I imagine we will be sharing logistics once we combine our forces to rid Dorne of your marauding bandits," says Sarella, "might as well hear it earlier. The better to plan for."

"That makes sense, doesn't it Maester?" asks Edric.

"Ah," says Maester Cidrio. He looks from Allyria to Edric then back again. "Well, I suppose that-"

"Of course it does!" interjects Ser Ferdand.

"Everything of ours is near the coast," says Ser Rorrigo, "we'll need all the help we can get if that four-masted ship of theirs is as tough as Ser Brownstone has claimed."

"Four-masted ship?" asks Sarella.

Outnumbered, Allyria relents. There is no sense in arousing suspicion. Informing the Sunspear of this will attract attention, but so long as the Darkstar doesn't return there will be no issue. And he shouldn't return anyway. He couldn't. Could he?

She nods to Ser Brownstone, who begins.

Of the three Atlacal who were taken alive only one managed to survive his wounds. Yolotl, one of the foreign warriors, cut down five guards, had his leg broken, and had a spear run through his chest before he was detained. Although initially recalcitrant, he broke his silence late in the night, delirious from lack of blood and sleep. In this state Yolotl often repeated that he is a warrior, like them, and that he simply does as he's commanded. And so, down in one of the dark mildewy cells underneath Castle Starfall, he answered everything they asked.

Like the others he claims to be from a land on the other side of the Sunset Sea, which he calls Ayamictlan. He is pledged to an emperor named Tlon, and he says that his duty is to safeguard the ambassadors while they explore eastward, searching for foreign lands with their small fleet of three ships. The reasons for this exploration appear rooted in their foreign religion - Maester Cidrio takes over giving the summation here - Yolotl claims that his emperor searches for foreign riches in order to appease a sun god that makes demands of jewels and blood. The strangest thing though, Maester Cidrio notes, is how straightforward the captive was about this. Yolotl explained how people have their hearts ripped out and their heads sliced off with the same straightforward tone of voice that someone might use to explain why a sept must have seven walls. This method of death did not seem to bother Yolotl in the slightest. It was only after Yolotl witnessed the reaction that Ser Brownstone and Maester Cidrio had to this knowledge that he became worried. He pleaded and panicked and pointed to the ambassadors green book, struggling to explain that the people were killed out of mercy. These Atlacal, believe that without sacrifices the sun will die and the world will fall into darkness and chaos forever. That's why they came to treat with them in such daunting vessels - tribute must come from far and wide if the sun god is to be satisfied.

"The prisoner made it clear that kingdoms receive the favor of the emperor Tlon if they supply sacrifices," says Ser Brownstone, "and that if we simply give them what they want, they'll leave."

"Unthinkable," says Ser Ferdand.

"Nightmarish," says Ser Rorrigo.

"Do...do you find this captive believable, Ser Brownstone?" asks Sarella. Little waves of skepticism and confusion move across her face as she tries to read the mood of the small council around her, trying to suss out if this is a ruse. Allyria isn't surprised. She wouldn't believe it herself if she hadn't seen that same disregard for life from the two ambassadors.

"Yes," says Ser Brownstone, "it's in line with what we learned from the ambassadors. In it's own gruesome way it also explains their behavior, as well as the pictures in their book."

"Did the prisoner say where the other ships went?" asks Allyria.

"One departed to a farther shore they sighted days ago," says Ser Brownstone, "although what shores they could have seen isn't clear. By what the captive described it must be somewhere along the Reach's eastern coast."

"And the third ship?" asks Edric.

"Sailed back to give a report," says Ser Brownstone, "to inform their emperor about their discovery, perhaps to come back with aid."

The small council falls silent.

"What happened to the ship here, the- what did they call it?" asks Sarella.

"The Loatilistli," says Maester Cidrio, doing his best to replicate the prisoner's accent.

"Yes, where did that one go?" asks Sarella.

"It sank four of our galleys before it slipped away on a favorable wind," says Edric, "the rest of our galleys are heading out to sea to try and find it."

"The foreign ship had two ballistae on either side of it, and they shoot true," says Ser Brownstone, "they could sink a ship with just two successful strikes." Then, at seeing Sarella's incredulous look, he adds: "I saw them myself."

"Forgive my skepticism," says Sarella Sand, "I meant no offense, only to see my duty through."

"No offense is taken," says Allyria.

"I believe I speak for House Martell when I offer condolences for the men who died fighting," says Sarella Sand, "I am sure Prince Doran will offer aid to our close allies, charged here with defending Dorne's western flank. As for the Darkstar-"

"I will send another raven to High Hermitage," says Allyria, "to allow the Darkstar a chance to explain himself. As his family we owe him at least that much. But-" this she says in response to Sarella raising her finger, "but we will pledge infantrymen to assist in the Darkstar's capture, should he give battle."

"Mounted riders would be quicker," says Sarella.

"They would," says Allyria, "but mounted riders are best kept near at hand, to respond to any further appearances of the foreign barbarians. Isn't that right Ser Brownstone?"

"I-Yes, yes of course my lady," says Ser Brownstone, "once the barbarians are dealt with, the mounted riders can head north to offer aid, if they should still be needed."

"Then can House Martell rely on a fair number of infantrymen? The Darkstar doesn't seem the negotiating kind. And if the rumors that Ser Barristan Selmy is in Essos are true, the Darkstar may well be the most skilled fighter in Westeros now living. Speaking for myself, I am surprised, although thankful, that Gerold Dayne is not the Sword of the Morning."

"I hope that decision reflects well on House Dayne," says Allyria, "in the eyes of Prince Doran."

"I'm sure it will my lady," says Sarella.

Sarella looks up into the air, thinking.

"Lord Dayne," says Sarella, "may I borrow a raven? My uncle will want to know of this development. If it would help bring the Darkstar to justice, he may have ships that can be made available to search the seas south of Dorne."

"The ravenry is yours," says Edric.

"And if I may, I'd like to ask if I can stay here at Castle Starfall to assist you my lord," says Sarella to Edric, "as an intermediary, your direct line to the Sunspear."

"Didn't the Prince of Dorne bid you return to the Sunspear?" asks Allyria.

Sarella smiles.

"He did indeed," says Sarella, "but if I know my uncle, I know he would ask me to stay and help our allies the Dayne's in their time of need."

The Sers, the Maester and young Edric all look to Allyria. What sort of stewardess would deny aid from her liege lord in her time of need?

The precise number of pledged men is haggled over for the rest of the meeting as the Sers hash out the hypotheticals of a battle at High Hermitage and a naval battle with a rogue ship. Afterwards Maester Cidrio and Edric rise to go and continue the interrogation of the prisoner. Allyria allows for Edric to see the prisoner on the condition that there are four guards accompanying him and only if Maester Cidrio keeps the conversation away from their savage religion. Sarella Sand, with surprising boldness and Edric's acquiescence, accompanies them to see this barbarian warrior for herself. As she watches them leave Allyria can see Sarella's onyx eyes alternating between a wide eyed curiosity and a doubting pensiveness.

When there is no one else left in the small council room but Allyria and Ser Brownstone, Allyria speaks.

"When I go up to the ravenry go downstairs and keep an eye on the island girl, I don't want her to see me there, or coming or going from there."

Ser Brownstone nods dutifully.

"My lady, if I may, what will you write him?" he asks, "if you tell him that the Sunspear is planning to march on-"

"The Darkstar already knows the Sunspear is marching on him," says Allyria, "he's cruel but he's not mad. If he really did what this the island girl said then he knew someone was going to come after him."

"But why would he try to kill the princess?" asks Ser Brownstone, "how is that to the advantage of House Dayne?"

"I don't know," says Allyria, "The Darkstar believes what he believes. Whatever this costs him, it will be worth the cost."

"And if the cost is the death of our own infantrymen?" asks Ser Brownstone.

Allyria's mind returns to the sight of the foreign savages, these Atlacal, cutting down the fighting men of House Dayne in the lord's solar. She can still hear the sad droning prayers of the Septons presiding over burials.

"We'll...we'll send as few north to High Hermitage as we can," says Allyria, "we'll send reliable men, who would avoid intervening in the fighting, as much as they could. They wouldn't have to die."

"So," says Ser Brownstone, "the plan is to let the Sunspear take Gerold prisoner."

Allyria looks at him now. Gerold Dayne was cruel to everyone in his youth, but he was most cruel to the superstitious, fearful, and lesser noble Darrion Brownstone. Darrion's suffering imbued him with a disdain for the Darkstar that often manifested itself in a diminishing of the Dayne's skill, a hateful devaluation of his prowess. Allyria hears that current in his voice now.

"Then you could explain my lady," he continues, "your word would be immensely-"

"The Darkstar will defeat whatever captors the Sunspear sends," says Allyria.

"...my lady-"

"The Sand Snake is right," says Allyria, "the Gerold Dayne is now the greatest swordsman in Westeros now living. He knows it. His men know it. The Princes of eastern Dorne know it. And they will cast their lots accordingly."

Allyria feels at her necklace, the Lodestar.

"If Gerold is slain on High Hermitage we deny ever speaking with him," says Allyria, "If, or when, he defeats his accusers...then we see what the Sunspear does next."

Ser Brownstone nods his head.

"More men will die," he says.

"The Darkstar is our responsibility, and we should have controlled him better."

I should have controlled him better, thinks Allyria to herself.

"And if he's taken alive?" asks Ser Brownstone, "the Martells have ways."

"The Darkstar surrenders nothing," repeats Allyria, "it'd be better if he did."

CITLALI ACCUSTOMS HERSELF TO THE REACH

[[Why name?]] asks Lomys in his tone-deaf Atlajtoli, [[why Book of Talking Leaves?]]

This curiosity is his clumsy way of trying to make amends.

Citlali indulges him.

[[We didn't name it,]] she says, [[in the tenth b'akt'un, when the Tlon of the Seventh Year of the Knife marched north to Hinojovo, he came upon tribes of people living in the desert. These people never learned to write things down, which it made it more difficult to learn their tongue. The Tlon asked his Needles to create a book to help his Blades, Shields, Needles, and Hammers to speak with those people, so as to explain the necessity of sacrifice to the Emerald Hummingbird and the Sun. The book amazed the desert tribes. They believed the Atlacal had learned how to make leaves talk.]]

Lomys looks at her, trying and failing to fully comprehend. So Citlali takes the book from the nearby table and holds a single page up. She traces her fingers across the Atlajtoli text and says his in his common tongue: "Leaves talk."

"Ah!," he says and nods in understanding. He looks to her with an expectant, sad, smile.

He still feels bad for what they did to me, Citlali thinks to herself. He should. He brought her straight into the maw of the jaguar. It's because of him that Citlali was bound in crude iron chains in a dark windowless room. It's because of him that indigene men in iron suits held daggers to her neck as they interrogated her, barking in their guttural tongue for hours. She pleaded with them, she tried to explain to them the danger of the coming ikualotl and what could still be done, but there was no way they could understand her back then, no matter how pitifully she cried. Unsatisfied, they left her there to wallow in the totality of her filth for days afterward. Lomys should feel bad. He should feel terrible.

And he put himself between me and the guards when they first came to take us, she thinks to herself. And it is true. But this one act is not enough to absolve him. And that was months ago now, besides.

Citlali fastens the green feathers to the elbows of her sleeves, using a tall and crude rectangular mirror to make sure they're fastened tight. This cheap little guest's room is better than the cell, but it's still a cell all the same. Nothing but some simple wooden furniture in a stone room to serve her, a foreign 'princess.' This fern colored dress they make her wear isn't anything like how they dress back in Atlacal, either. It's long and flowy, something like the clothes of the women from up north in Hinojovo. And the patterns of the dress are abstract in an odd foreign way, from some other part of this new world. Parts of the fabric around her arms and neck that are so sheer she can see through them. It makes for a beautiful set of manacles.

As she smoothes her dress Citlali sees Lomys pouring over the Book of Leaves through the mirror. In a few moments he's going to try starting another conversation in Atlajtoli. She can see him gathering up the words for it in his head right now.

Citlali takes another look at herself in the mirror, sees this foreign dress above her Atlacal sandals and the absurdly placed green feathers, all of it stark against her bare room.

And yet I'm making history, she thinks to herself. No Atlacal woman - no one from anywhere in Ayamictlan - has been so far eastward as she is now. Today I'll be speaking to a foreign queen, Citlali thinks as she tries to cheer herself, and I'll be the first ambassador to ever do so, the first Needle to ever speak to - what did they call her? The Queen of Thorns? Yes. They might write books about this day. The first meeting of east and west. She smiles, sees her smile in the mirror, and realizes how ridiculous she looks.

Illusions, Citlali chastises herself. The lofty dreams of a caged bird.

[[Citlali,]] says Lomys, [[you miss you home?]]

She glances at him using the mirror.

[[I do,]] says Citlali plainly.

[[Hmm,]] says Lomys.

A knock at the door. The guards come to retrieve them. Lomys shuts the book and unruffles his clothes. A dark leather tunic with forest green cloth wraps him up so that he sweats whenever they're summoned. All of this is strange for him too. Lowly Lomys, Citlali thinks to herself, uncomfortable in his nobleman's clothes and meek under the eyes of his betters.

Normally they're summoned to the glass walled garden at the top of the Sunhouse - the tlatoani of this place, the man they call Lord Cuy, likes to play up Citlali's foreign origins with a jungle-like setting - but today they're pulled from their cloistered room to head downstairs to the courtyard at the tower's base. This Queen of Thorns is a busy woman who has neither the time nor the desire to climb up flights of stairs to be entertained, so the princess and her minder are to go to her. As two guards escort Lomys and Citlali through the stonework maze of the tower's interior Citlali imagines what the Queen of Thorns might look like. She imagines a fearsome woman, skin like mahogany and hair like night, wearing a crown of sinister thorns - covered in jade and obsidian jewelry. Somewhere, Citlali imagines, someone like this must exist, this land must have some ruler all the indigene bow to.

So far the sightseers that have come to gawk at her have all been other local tlatoani, all of them either equals to Lord Cuy or his underlings, the lesser rich and far flung nobles. Lomys told Citlali that Lord Cuy charges them for the privilege of visiting her, intending for this to flatter her. But what good is gold to a caged bird?

When they make it to the ground floor Lord Cuy's entourage is there to introduce his curiosity. A grand trellis creates an arc of green that opens to the lower courtyard that serves as the Cuys' second botanical garden. There are a number of different plant species cared for here and the leaves and flowers seem to change every few feet from blue to red to yellow and on and on. Even with this the variety here paltry compared to the glass Sunhouse up above. At the courtyard's center a fountain - shaded by a circular wooden pavilion that leaves the bubbling water at center in the light of the day - Citlali sees Lord Cuy along with his wife and daughter seated at a lavish wooden table, their servants buzzing around them and their knights at an arms distance away, helmed and stoic.

At the same table Citlali sees the woman that must be the Queen of Thorns. She wears no crown but her noble poise is unmistakable. The woman is old and wrinkled - her face has the laugh lines of a life spent well lived - but her eyes have a certain unshaking stillness that suggests deep foundations. This Queen of Thorns wears a hat, or a headwrap, Citlali can't quite tell what it is, and she dresses in the style of the other indigene women, with cloth layered over and over to create patterns and symmetry. Although for an older woman perhaps the extra layers aren't so bad, Citlali thinks to herself, they'd keep her warm instead of suffocating her. Citlali notes that unlike her captors, dressed in blue, the Queen dresses in pale greens and gold.

Lord Cuy leans over his end of the table, his stomach pressing into it, and out toward the Queen, listing off facts from the top of his head in an effort to impress her. The Queen and her entourage - a few younger indigene that Citlali imagines must be her of her tribe or family - busy themselves with pretending politely to listen, their eyes darting over to Citlali and Lomys as the two enter the court garden.

"Ah they're here!" says Lord Cuy, "Lady Olenna Tyrell, may I present to you our little exhibit! Citlali, the barbarian princess from across the Sunset Sea, and her translator, Lomys."

With a sweep of his arm he motions to Citlali and Lomys. Citlali gives the bow indigene women give - they call it a 'curtsy' - and Lomys bends at the waist to bow a deep bow.

At the sight of her some of the Queen's entourage whisper to one another, their faces shifting from incredulity to a cautious curiosity. The Queen herself, no more than five and ten feet away, looks straight into Citlali's jade eyes and searches for something familiar. Not finding it, the Queen allows herself an arch of the eyebrow and the beginnings of a smile.

"And where did they find you young lady?" asks Olenna with a skeptics lilt in her voice.

"Go on," says the fat Lord Cuy, "give her your greeting."

"I-" begins Citlali.

"Now Lord Cuy," says Olenna, "I appreciate your enthusiasm to show me your new captive, but I believe that in order to form a fair judgement it'd be best if I spoke to her alone. Would you give us the courtyard?"

"Eh, well Lady Olenna," says Lord Cuy, "I'm not sure if-"

"I have to be able to make a fair and untainted judgement," says Olenna, "my Maester would ask me of nothing less, given the weight of such a claim."

Lord Cuy, stammers for a rejoinder, and his wife speaks for him.

"Lady Olenna," says the thin Lady Cuy, "I'm not sure what you're implying-"

"Lord Cuy has made a great claim. It seems only necessary that it be appraised fairly," says Olenna, "if anything, you should take this as a sign that you've piqued my curiosity."

The Queen of Thorns offers a matronly smile.

After a moment to think on it, Lord Cuy nods.

"Of course," says Branston Cuy, "anything for our close allies in Highgarden."

A few more pleasantries are exchanged and the Cuy entourage exits the courtyard garden, leaving only the knights sworn to the Queen of Thorns behind as guards. Citlali knows it's them because across their iron armor they wear sashes of a pale green color instead of the stark blue and yellow of House Cuy, adorned with flowers of a kind she's never seen before.

"Now then my dear," says Olenna to Citlali, "where did they find you? Ibb perhaps? Maybe in a Myrish port?"

"They didn't find me," says Citlali. She struggles with the thick consonants of the indigene language, "I come here. With Lomys."

"Ah yes your translator," says Olenna, shifting her gaze slightly to Lomys, "Seems he isn't so necessary if you and I can speak. You look Westerosi young man. Are you?"

"Yes milady," says Lomys, "I was born here in the Reach milady, and I was raised helping my father bring in the wheat."

"A hard working young man," says Olenna in a kindly way, "and now you work as a translator for a barbarian princess? You've come quite a long way."

"I am not princess," says Citlali, "I am not barbarian."

"Oh I never believed you were my child," says Olenna, "I'm sure this is something Barmy Branston has cooked up in order to earn another trip to the Citadel."

Citlali gives her a confused look.

"The Maesters don't like him going anymore," says Olenna, "I think he annoys them, so he tries to court them. Usually he tries with a new flower the old gray beards might be interested in, brought to him from some Essosi trader. Which leads us to you, where did he pluck you?"

"I am from across the Sunrise Sea," says Citlali, "to the west."

Olenna lets her face drop into irritation.

"I thought we'd moved past this charade," she says.

"It's true milady," offers Lomys. Then, realizing he'd spoken without being spoken to, he lowers his head, "forgive me milady."

"Calm yourself young man," says Olenna, "you don't live in Highgarden without learning to handle a few thorns. Now, what is this you mean, it's true?"

"I, well," begins Lomys, "it's true what she says. She came with another to our farm, with a book of foreign writing, and Lord Branston told us of the grand ship his men tried to take -"

"When he supposedly took this princess as a hostage, in order to get them to surrender," says Olenna, "yes I know. The story was very valiant. That's how I know it isn't true. Then he explained the interrogations and the other various horridness he's subjected this poor princess to, which seemed, well, less valiant. But Barmy Branston wouldn't know the difference."

"I am Needle, not princess," says Citlali, "I journey and speak to indigene as to serve the Tlon. Lord Cuy change me from Needle to princess. Lord Cuy lies."

The Queen of Thorns chuckles to herself, "that he does."

Citlali, unsure what to make of this Queen, looks to Lomys for help but he too stands stone still, waiting for the Queen to continue the conversation. For her part, the Queen of Thorns looks from one of them to the other. Her brow furrows in concentration.

"Let's see this book of yours then," says Olenna.

Lomys hands the Book of Talking Leaves to one of the Queen's entourage who delivers it to the queen's lap. She opens it up and flips through the pages, each turn causing her eyes to lose a little more of their skepticism.

"Say something my dear," says Olenna to Citlali, "in your mother tongue. Say that you've come from the west."

[[I come from the west,]] says Citlali.

Olenna looks at the book, then at Lomys, then last at Citlali's jade eyes.

"Can this be real?" says Olenna, "and here I thought you were just some Essosi cast away. So Barmy Branston really found something? You're from across the Sunset Sea?"

"The Sunrise Sea," corrects Citlali.

Olenna face breaks from the rictus of skepticism into an open laugh.

"May I ask what brings you to our shores then?" asks Olenna between giggles.

"I come to bring words of Tlon," says Citlali, "to offer his gifts."

"Who is Tlon?" asks Olenna.

[[Tlon is…]] begins Citlali, trying to find the right translation.

"Emperor," says Lomys.

"Hmm. The emissary of a foreign emperor," says Olenna, "dressed like a Lysene harlot."

She shakes her head but Citlali is unsure if it's in disappointment or in disbelief.

"I'm sorry that this is how you have to see Westeros my dear," says Olenna.

"Can you help?" asks Citlali, "for me to leave?"

Olenna frowns.

"I don't know if Branston would let one of his flowers go so easily," says Olenna, "and I don't think I could coerce him, at least not now. My grandson has been imprisoned by the Faith Militant for crimes against the Seven, the new High Septon - some fanatic, dressed in rags, the type who flagellates himself no doubt -"

Neither Lomys nor Citlali appear to be following. Olenna sighs.

"I came here to ask for Cuy's support. Not everyone in the Reach is as…" Olenna thinks for a moment, "...broad minded, as House Tyrell. The charges against my grandson are stirring up something of a fervor, and I'm here to remind the loyal Lords of the Reach who still sits in Highgarden, and whose granddaughter is still the real Queen."

"You are not queen?" asks Citlali.

Olenna chuckles, "well of course I am my dear but- where did you say you were from?"

[[Atlacal,]] says Citlali.

[[Atlacal,]] says Olenna, trying the word out, "well I don't know how things work in Atlacal, but here in Westeros there are a number of queens, and not all of them play nicely with one other. And they can't always press their queenly demands, besides."

Citlali frowns and begins to speak, but Olenna interrupts her.

"But only for now. Once my grandson is free and these fanatics are dealt with I'll have more sway over Branston and his foolish little schemes. I'll have him let you go. Why, with Margaery's seal, he might even apologize. But for now, well, I'm sorry my dear, but I must let him have this."

Olenna offers a smile.

"It should be only a few weeks," says Olenna, "believe me my dear, I want this business dealt with as well."

[[Thank you, Queen of Thorns,]] says Citlali. She bows in the style of Atlacal, one hand over her heart. She doesn't know if she can trust her, but Citlali won't turn the chance of help away, and so she adds: "thank you. I make sure the Tlon learns of your kindness."

Olenna chuckles, "thank you my dear. Hopefully next we meet it'll be in better circumstances than this. Now then, I won't ask you to keep to this charade any longer."

And with that the Tyrell matriarch bids them farewell.

Citlali thinks about the Queen for the rest of the day. As the guards escort her back to the room that serves as her cell and as she eats her meager meal of indigene food - the grass bread, the brown slop, the fermented mush they call cheese - all of it seems somehow easier to bear now that she has this little glimmer of hope. The under furnished guest room that is her new home comes alive with details she's never noticed before. The bed with the crude wooden box - with a mattress made of straw - covered in the tough thin cloth they call linen that's always too cold and too rough, now it seems almost inviting. The little stone fireplace covered in ash; the stone shelf home to some white candles; the disturbing seven pointed star made of brass; all of them have the warm glow of familiarity. The sky beyond the crude stone window seems bigger than before and it invites her mind to wonder. Citlali has no reason to think that the Queen will keep her word of course. How could she trust some foreigner, who knows nothing about her, to do her this kindness?

But what if she did? Then Citlali could return to the coast and search for the Ixtehuetlon. If she can find it again she can rejoin the expedition. With the expedition she'd be able to return home to the Ephemeral City. Citlali closes her eyes and lets this thought envelope her - she can almost smell the roasted maize and the warm xocolatl; imagines the sensation of fresh cotton clothes against her flesh, the feeling of the warm sun punctuated by a cool breeze; pines for another that would be dear to her, and to whom she would be dear.

She opens them again and sees Lomys seated at his favorite spot by the window, the right edge of the frame, where he can sit and look east toward his family's cottage. Citlali knows he can't see it from there - she's looked out there as well - but he looks out anyway. After a moment Lomys feels her eyes on him and he turns to find them. Their eyes meet for a moment and he hastily look away.

Unlike Citlali, Lomys can move about the Sunhouse as he wishes - the guards won't press him back into his room like they do her. Their first day here he spent wandering, but after that he took to waiting with Citlali in her room, asking about Atlajtoli and picking up pieces of it here and there. At first Citlali didn't know what to make of this. Considering how terrible his accent and how clumsy his mind it's surprising he didn't simply give up. She became aware that this was a manifestation of his guilt, of having brought her here to be a prisoner, of trying to relieve her loneliness, and to relieve his own loneliness, too. It was for those reasons. But there is something else too.

He wants to see the rest of my tattoos, Citlali finds herself thinking with something not unlike playfulness.

Citlali feels herself light and imagines it must be the good will of the Queen. Emotions are catching, and having been the recipient of kindness, Citlali finds herself in a kind mood. She grants that Lomys didn't know what he was bringing her to. Citlali thought he must have known, but then it became clear that his kind of indigene is not of the same stuff as these highborn lot. And now she knows better. Once travellers started coming to hear her speak like a trained bird, and once Citlali had more chances to see the world outside her room, it became clear why Lowly Lomys preferred to stay with her. He shrinks before the highborn - he bows deeper even than any of the servants or chambermaids, and he struggles with the fancy language of these well-to-do indigene. Like in the times before the Tlonotl and the Triple Alliance, here the land is held together by bloodlines, men and women pledging themselves to royalty, and royalty pledging themselves to themselves. The lowborn know nothing and have nothing. Lomys the wheat farmer's boy is as lost in this place as she is - she glimpsed this before but thought it an illusion. Citlali looks over to him now still looking out the window.

The aquamarine of the day's sky gives into the azure of night, mottled with darknesses against the sky where the clouds are rolling in. Citlali watches it through tall mirror - once plain, now brightened by her cheer - and plucks out the feathers from around her elbows. She tosses off her shoes to one side and looks into the mirror to see Lomys looking back at her.

[[The Queen help,]] says Lomys, [[she leaving, but help.]]

[[She'll help me leave,]] says Citlali.

[[Yes,]] says Lomys, [[she'll help you leave. This is happy for you yes?]]

[[Yes,]] chuckles Citlali, [[this makes me happy.]]

[[Where you leave?]] asks Lomys.

[[Where will I go?]] asks Citlali.

[[Yes,]] says Lomys, [[where will you go?]]

[[Somewhere far from here,]] says Citlali, [[I need to find the Loatilistli or the Ixtehuetlon, if either of them are still sailing. That, or survive until the Tonatli Teon comes back with the colonists.]]

[[Your people come back?]]

[[Not for a while,]] says Citlali, [[they know the way now, but it still takes time to cross the sea.]]

Citlali looks into his blue eyes and realizes they've lost their unnaturalness.

[[If I leave, what will you do?]] asks Citlali.

[[I don't know,]] says Lomys. He looks back out the window, his eyes moving across the dark green landscape of the Reach in twilight. "Maybe I'll go back to growing wheat, but I can't do that myself. You need people to work a field."

"But you have other family, no?" says Citlali, "distant, maybe-"

"No," says Lomys, "fathers family didn't survive the last winter, and mother's family were traders, gone for years now."

Lomys shrugs.

"But I'll make my way," he says, "I'll make my way. You don't have to worry about me."

Citlali plucks out the last of the feathers, placing them on a small table near the crude tall mirror. Lomys slumps forward, crossing his arms and leaning on the windowsill, pondering what a translator does when there's nothing to translate. Citlali walks over to him, placing her hand on his shoulder to console him and Lomys' shoulder jolts up at her touch, relaxing again after a moment. Citlali lets her fingers slide up toward the nape of his neck and she sees his body relax under his clothes. He turns to look at her and their eyes meet.

What happens after that? For Citlali, everything takes on an illusory tint. Is it that Lomys rises of his own volition or is that she bids him up from his chair? When they press their bodies close together, is it Lomys that leans in first or is it she that pulls him in? Somethings are less illusory than others - it's her that slips off his tunic and it's him who undoes her dress top - and other things flow into one another: the cool feel of the linen bed cloth flows into the warm softness of their clothes which flows into the life affirming sensation of flesh against flesh. How long has it been? Citlali wonders. Not since back in Ayamictlan.

He's nervous and still in a daze so Citlali guides him, taking his hand in hers and using it for herself until she's sure that he understands what he's meant to be doing. At that point he doesn't need much more encouragement. His muscles are lean and taut and they press into her smooth curves, she takes hold of his hips and pulls him into her rhythm, making sure to keep him close, their words a mix of their two tongues but the meanings the same - yes, like that, more - so that's it's easy to change and enjoy a new curve, a new stride, a new rhythm, until finally Citlali finds herself on top of Lomys, setting a pace she doesn't care if he can keep, chasing the little death.

AN OLD RAVEN IS GRANTED A BOON

Ravens, like people, lose animus as they grow old. For ravens this means that their feathers grow thin and brittle and can no longer fly as far or for as long. So they must narrow their searching grounds - to press oneself in old age leads quickly to fatigue, and soon after that, some toothy, hungry maw. But some ravens are lucky. They manage to treat with the strange but friendly old men who live in one of the tall stone towers of mankind. These old men will grant a raven sustenance and sanctuary in exchange for carrying thin pieces of bark from one tower to another. Easy work. The bark hardly weighs anything at all and the distances required are not that much longer than the ones ravens already fly. But there are only so many of these friendly old men, and they have only so much room.

This old raven doesn't have the luck to be a kept raven. She roosts in the canopy of a lonely tree atop a lonely hill near the coast, on a tuft of solid earth before the sandy shore where she must rely on dead fish for food. Things were not always this way of course - but now with age the old raven has trouble remembering how, in fact, things used to be. It must be her age, for the memories of her fledgling years among the northern forests are now mixed with vague dreams: visions of trudging through a snowy landscape with two legs dressed in leathers, of holding her children and husband in two featherless arms, of eating cooked seal with a mouth full of teeth.

These dreams torment the old raven but she doesn't know why.

Although her sleep is troubled her days are pleasant. Nature is bountiful here and the old raven never has to exert herself too much. The breeze from the sea is cool and crisp but the climate is warm and the two in combination feel nourishing to her old bones. The only trouble is that there are not so many other ravens hereabouts for company. The few that do pass through prefer to ride the thermals up and down the coast on long foraging journeys. On the occasions when they come to roost in her tree - not so uncommon, as it has the best view of the ocean for a good long ways - she asks of the things they've seen and the tales told to them by other ravens they've met along their flights. Just as she does now with the four ravens in her tree.

{{What goes on in the north?}}, asks the old raven in the speech of her kind. She always asks about the north. It reminds her of home in both her memories and her dreams.

{{The men in the City of the Red Keep grow wild,}} says one of the coastal ravens, {{a new breed of them dress in black and cut their own faces. They patrol the streets and beat others with clubs.}}

{{Sometimes these beatings lead to corpses,}} chimes in one of the other coastal ravens, {{the ravens there have a lot to eat these days.}}

{{And farther north of there?,}} asks the old raven, {{to the old forests and the snow lands?}}

{{Quite something,}} caws the coastal raven, {{they say that the men are warring up north, and that there are so many corpses that even the crows eat well.}}

{{Why do the men war?,}} asks the old raven.

{{Who knows,}} says the coastal raven.

{{Who cares,}} says another.

{{Did you know there are more men warring in the east?,}} offers the fourth coastal raven, {{the others say that across the water one can feast without end, but, well…}}

{{But what?,}} asks the old raven.

{{They say they've seen dragons in the skies.}}

A great fluttering of wings starts up.

{{Foolishness!,}} says a coastal raven, {{some ravens will believe anything.}}

{{Mirages,}} says another, {{a raven isn't meant to last in the heat.}}

{{Distractions,}} says a third, {{to pull us away from the feast to the north.}}

{{What do you think old raven,}} says the fourth coastal raven, {{would you head east or north?}}

{{And go through all that trouble?,}} says the old raven, {{I'd be a hawks feast before I found a feast of my own.}}

At this the ravens laugh a trilling laugh.

Days later, perched in her lonely tree, the old raven sets to thinking about the dragons out in Essos. She's never been, but the others have told her of a warm landscape, rolling green hills and island chains, rich with thermals, where one can soar vast distances with ease. The coasts there are rich with a multitude of colorful fish, the bugs are big and fat, and the men know to respect their kind, cowed by their Dragon Queen, the only human to fly. To see such a thing before she died would make her final years quite something. But for an old raven like her to even attempt such a journey would surely result in her death. And if she were to succeed: would the dragons eat her?

But what is she doing up in this tree that's worth staying alive for? The rotted fish of low tide? This view that is so familiar to her now that she could fly it blind? No. This is no place to greet death. Better to die on some foolish adventure than to grow so old and feeble she falls from her tree and breaks her skull.

With this thought filling her chest she flies up to the tallest branch of her lonely tree to see the world with new eyes. The first thing she sees is out across the water - a great set of white sails and the pair of grand ships they belong to. One of the great constructions of men where they live as they travel from place to place. Some of them between Westeros and Essos.

That is where I will go, says the old raven to herself.

It take only a few minutes for the old raven to fly down to the coast. There's a headwind and she has to push herself to fly against it, an inauspicious omen. The seagulls milling around the beach pay her no mind as she flies by - they're not as clever as ravens and have no curiosity for anything that isn't immediately edible. Underneath her as she flies the rock and sand gives way to the blue of the sea and a warm updraft lifts her up. She's glad for the altitude: one dip into the water will wet her feathers and drown her.

Once she flies closer the old raven can see that these two ships are much larger than most of the other ships that sail by. The masts are tall and the old raven perches atop of one so that she has an easy view of everything below. The people go about doing their business - they carry things from one place to another, fasten something or cut it loose, talk and talk and talk. If they've noticed the old raven perched up on the masts they don't make a show of it. All the better for the old raven. She flutters from one mast to another, observing the carvings scattered here and there, taking experimental pecks to investigate the wood, watching the triangular flags blow in the wind.

Too tired to fly back to the coast, the old raven is at the mercy of the ship's route. She finds herself seized with panic, surrounded by so much blue. If the ship heads out to sea it'll be even harder to fly back to shore, and it's unlikely that the people below will be so kind as to feed her from their own stores. If anything, they will do what men always do and try to strike at her until she's gone or dead. But as luck would have it her panic is misplaced. The hours goes by and the people don't notice her nor do they wander far from the coast. The ships seem to zig and zag closer and away from the coast, as if they're lost and too are worried about leaving the sight of land.

A day goes by with the old raven on the sailing ship. The people below take notice of her but unlike the people of the continent these sea people treat her with curiosity instead of revulsion. Some of them offer her scraps of their rations - dried fish and a curious type of circular flat bread - placing it somewhere near themselves so as to get a closer look at her. But the old raven keeps her distance - she's used this trick before herself in order to attract mice. She'll not be caught in that trap, so she makes sure the people are far away from her when she pecks at their offerings.

During one such feeding the men - and women too, the old raven notices now, an oddity on ships - are distracted by the cry of one of their brethren. Instinctively the old raven flies back up to the mast for her own safety. From there she sees that one of the men has injured himself with an obsidian knife. His forearm seeps blood from a gash so deep the old raven can see the white of bone. Beyond the initial cry of pain however the man restrains himself, clenching his teeth in agony. He wraps his fingers below the slash to staunch the bleeding as the others around him yell out for aid.

From below deck comes a man adorned in jade, wearing a plumed helm with feathers of a kind the old raven has never seen before. Long and luxurious plumes of orange, white, and black, azure blues and incandescent reds, and most beautiful of all, streaks of emerald green that appear more gemstone than feather. Although the man's hair is gray his body is muscular and lean as if he were a man much younger, and he's covered in the dark ink of so many tattoos. The plumed man makes his way to the injured man and inspects the wound. He has the injured man sit down and sits himself down before him, folding his legs in a strange way that the old raven can't get her head around, holding his arms out.

For a minute or so nothing happens. By now the other people on the deck have gone back to whatever it is they were doing but the plumed man still sits with the injured man, unmoving. Then the old raven notices something: the wound no longer seems to be bleeding. Then- no, these old eyes must be failing me, caws the old raven to herself. For the blood begins now to move up into the air - the pool of it by the injured man rises slowly, held aloft as if by some invisible wind. Little bubbles of it float upward, strings of it pull themselves together, all of it hanging just above the surface of the deck. The plumed man's eyes are closed and he mumbles every now and again. Once in the air the blood reverses its current back into the bloody mess of the man's arm, his wound stitching itself back together as it does so, leaving behind a dark streak of flesh where there was injury. In the time it takes the old raven to pick a fish clean the plumed man has restored all of the injured man's lost blood back to him. The wound is healed.

The injured man flexes his forearm, opens and closes his fist experimentally. He smiles and rotates his wrist, satisfied. The plumed man takes the once-injured arm with two hands and turns it over, inspecting the dark scar. He considers something. The plumed man then slaps the scar and the once-injured man pulls back. The plumed man admonishes him, pointing a finger and slapping the back of one hand into the palm of the other, as the once-injured man gesticulates with his now healthy arm, trying to explain himself.

Who knows what it is they say. The old raven can only imitate people, not speak with them.

Days go by and the old raven accustoms herself to life on the ship. As before, the ship doesn't sail too far from land. Not that it would matter if it did anymore. Now the old raven has befriended one of the men with the plumed helms, although this one's helm is different than the one she saw before, adorned only with the feathers of emerald green. The man's quarters are large, luxurious, and at the back of the ship, where large windows afford him a clear view of the ship's wake and the sea beyond. His quarters also contain the best food.

The man offers the old raven treats and allows her to rest on his windowsill. Alone in his quarters he will sometimes talk to her, although of course the old raven has no idea what about. As he pontificates, she eats: a green fruit, the size of an apple, but with a pink flesh that is juicy and sweet; berries in a rich shade of blue that bleed purple; large black and white mottled seeds that must be snapped open to eat; and the dried meat of an animal she's never tasted before, all lean and gamey.

Sometimes, on a day when the sky is cloudy and the old raven tires of the plumed man's soliloquies, such as now, she goes to visit the other of the two ships. This one has only three masts and not nearly as many people on it; a difference due to more than just it's smaller size. The old raven can see that many of the people on the second ship are painted with the same dark scars as the man who injured himself before. One of them, a woman with eyes the color of fresh oranges, is missing a hand. They've been fighting, probably with men from the continent, the old raven thinks to herself. Men always find some reason for fighting.

The old raven doesn't much like to spend much time perched around this second ship - the mood of the people here is much gloomier and they are less charitable in their treat giving - but it's this second ship is where the sea people keep their spoils of war.

For the third time now the two great sailing ships have overtaken and captured a fisherman's boat, and since they end up with more fish than they can eat, they must salt what they can't. At these times the old raven advantages herself of the fish the people manage to lose sight of in the salting process.

Isn't this stealing? says the old raven to herself. Perhaps. But perhaps she's also teaching a lesson about taking more than one can eat at once.

Like the Squidmen of the Isles these sea people take their victims alive to serve, and all the fishermen they've taken captive are restrained in ropes and kept below deck. When the old raven eats her fill of half-salted fish she flutters down to one of the portholes to see them. There she sees the captives - identifiable by their skin, which is much paler than that of the sea people - inside a large wooden cage. Nine of them mill about the cage, resting on something or another. On the other side of the wooden bars sits one of the sea people, a young tattooed man dressed in a light blue tunic. There on the floor he speaks to the captives and points to the book. Of all the prisoners, only one of them, an older woman dressed in cream colored robes, seems to be paying attention. When the reader asks it of her, the old woman responds with a few words, or she will repeat his speaking. The reader will nod if he is satisfied with her imitation, or he will squawk in his human tongue is he is not. This goes on for long time but the old raven is content to watch, amazed that peoples might have different styles of calls amongst themselves, like ravens have with crows. Not one to be outdone, the old raven makes her own try at it:

[[Iiiiikuaaalotl! Iiiiiiiikuaaaalotl!]] cries the old raven.

Both the robed old woman and the reader look at the old raven with fear, then annoyance, at her interruption.

Knowing when she's not welcome, the old raven departs.

She returns to the four masted ship and a commotion in progress. Perched at the foremost mast she sees the people are arguing with another, pointing to something toward shore. The old raven looks out there herself and sees a tall rocky coast rising up from the sea, capped by an unfriendly patch of thorny green brush. It doesn't seem like somewhere a ship would do well, thinks the old raven to herself, but I am no sailor. Many of the people on the deck below her seem to agree, and they point further along the coast, insisting they continue on. But the other party is insistent. Behind her, at the top of the second and tallest mast, a woman has climbed up and sits in a small wooden box, from which she looks out toward the coast. She shouts something down to the others below and the ships press on toward landfall.

As they move closer the old raven can see what the men were aiming for. By a trick of vision some of the rocks jutting up from the sea hide an inlet. My eyes must be worse than I thought, thinks the old raven to herself, if these men could find this illusion so much quicker than me. The gloomy ship, smaller of the two, goes on ahead to make sure the inlet is traversable, and once it's through the larger plumed ship follows behind. The old raven keeps her spot at the foremost mast through all of this, pleased to be carried to shelter by these sea people.

What luck, thinks the old raven to herself. The inlet leads to a rocky cove, tall and deep, such that the both of the ships can fit inside it and with flat sections on either side where people can stay and setup shelter. Once in the shade of the cove the old raven flies up to the ceiling of and coasts her way back down, making sure to stop at the rocky outcroppings along the walls and the small plants that root themselves in their crevices. She snatches a few bugs here and there until she's full, and marvels that there are still so many outcroppings she's yet to visit. Below, men from the gloomy ship spill out onto the rocky stone floor and find stones to moor their vessel to while the plumed ship finishes pulling into the cove. Who knew these strange people would bring me here?, thinks the old raven to herself, it may not be Essos, but it's closer than I was before, although I will miss hearing the stories of the coastal ravens. And although she is momentarily saddened, she takes heart: all she need do is fly up out of the cove and find some other tree, where there will surely be other ravens cawwing together over the happenings of people.


	4. Part 4

[Historical Note: Tobacco, rubber, chocolate, vanilla, tomatoes, potatoes, and corn were unknown in the Old World before the Colombian Exchange.]

* * *

THE ATLACAL INTERROGATE THEIR CAPTIVES

Nochtli leads the five captives up the rocky path to a cliffside that overlooks the sea, where the blood priests wait by the altar. Carved recently out of the local stone, many of the engravings on the altar are incomplete. The various Aspects are unfinished, the inscriptions of the Four Siblings remain unpainted, and the round piece of bronze at the front of the altar is scuffed and scratched. Despite this, Nochtli can still peer into the bronze and catch his reflection staring back at him. His head is shaved at the sides and long hair on top is pulled back in a simple knot, common of warriors. His eyes are the eyes of the common Atlacal: honey brown in the light, obsidian mirrors in the dark.

Only a few weeds grow amongst the rocky nooks up on this cliff. From down below the sounds of waves crashing against stone slabs rise up as a single low cacophony, their salt spray seasoning the air with the smell of the sea. The other Blades behind Nochtli fall back as they approach the landing where the altar sits, forming themselves into a barrier in case the manacled captives should try an escape. Once this is done the last member of Nochtli's entourage steps forward, an old woman the indigene call Septa, who dresses in cream colored robes and who wears a seven pointed star made of wood around her neck.

"Who do you serve, my son?" she asks the first of the five captives.

"I am not your son, old woman," says the captive, "nor do I serve any of your false gods. _I_ serve only the God who Drowned for us."

Septa nods, her manner stiffly formal.

"These men want to make you an offer," says Septa to the captive, "you can either serve them or be killed."

"Then I will be killed," says the captive. He holds his head up.

Septa sighs.

[[This one chooses death milord,]] says Septa to Nochtli.

Proud, thinks Nochtli, it's a shame the squid men always choose death.

[[Noble is his sacrifice,]] says Nochtli dutifully. He nods his head in reverence of teotl and to signal Mixkoatl.

Mixkoatl steps forward from the barrier of fighters and escorts the captive to the stone altar that sits right at the edge of the cliff. The captive gives no struggle and walks with his head held high. With the help of one of the three blood priests Mixkoatl lays the man down on the stone altar, chest up, with his bound hands above his head. Two of the blood priests hold his arms and legs in case he should struggle, but this is unnecessary. The captive's body is calm. His hard lined face is locked in a scowl.

The head blood priest, a serious looking man named Ehecatl, adorned with jade earrings, jade studs, and a plumed helm, steps up to the altar with an obsidian knife in hand. He looks out past the captive on the altar as if to address the sea, the sky, and the tall rolling clouds that extend out over the horizon.

[[He Who Slakes the Thirst of the World,]] proclaims Ehecatl, [[let us appease you with this sacrifice, to exalt in your glory, to calm the seas and storms, and to aid in the wars to come.]]

Ehecatl raises his arms up to the sky and the captive cries out: "What is dead may never die!"

[[Warrior! Unafraid and willing! Your blood renews the world, from age to age,]] Ehecatl gathers his arms together to hold the knife with both hands, [[Thanks be to you.]]

The knife comes down in a flash while the crashing of the sea below overpowers the sound of the captive's expiring gasps. With the practiced smoothness of years Ehecatl slips his hand into the captive's chest and wrenches free a still beating heart as the salty sea air takes on the iron smell of blood.

One of the other blood priests takes an ornate white-wood macuahuitl and slices the captives head clean off as another blood priest collects the head to roll it over the cliff and down into the sea. Once that's done they grab the captive's arms and legs once more and they toss the rest of him into the sea as well.

With the heart held high in the air, Ehecatl exclaims: [[Indigene! The Tlon has no decree that demands death for ignorance. Glimpse now upon teotl, and lift yourselves up from the abyss!]]

Nochtli stamps his macuahuitl on the rocky cliff floor in unison with the other Blades. The four remaining squid men are startled but they don't deign to look away from the heart. Their faces are terror and curiosity in equal parts. Seeing this sparks a flash of memory in Nochtli: suddenly he's a boy again, witnessing his first sacrifice on the high holy days, when his parents took him to see the jeweled and perfumed Manifestations making the necessary sacrifice for living a year of decadence and luxury. The indigene captives now are like Nochtli was back when he first saw blood splatter on gemstones. Eyes wide with fear and awe at seeing red beating flesh borne in hand, a mote of crimson against the blue vastness of the sea and sky beyond.

Ehecatl becomes very still and his eyes close in concentration. The heart of the captive, still held high, it's beat still fluttering, drips blood and viscera down his umber arm. After a moment the dripping blood stops, it's movement arrested, and then it begins to float up in defiance of the earth's pull. Rivulets and globules of red rise up into the air and, rising higher now than the heart, they become like smoke and dissolve in the air. The heart itself starts to fume, more and more of it dissolving, until eventually all of the heart and blood is gone, lost to the wind.

The indigene captives stare at this demonstration with searching eyes. Whatever squid god these indigene might have it hasn't brought them these sorts of gifts, Nochtli thinks to himself.

And yet, despite this display, the next captive chooses sacrifice, and the one after him, and the one after him. Each of them holds his head up high and chooses death. Each of them walks calmly to the altar, silent save for their last words: "What is dead may never die!" Each is dispatched in the same way: a flash of shining black, a last gasp, and a tumble into the sea. Same as the first ship, Nochtli thinks to himself. A month docked here and the only opponents to be found are these gray cloaked squid men who insist on sacrifice instead of service. When the flotilla arrives the Commander will surely ask those posted here for another tour instead of letting them return to Ayamictlan. They'd have to if they can't find any local labor - Nochtli might not have to go to battle but he'll surely be posted to the Hammers. So that's another year at least. And then, at the end of that year, will begin the Twelfth Year of the Reed - the year that will host the ikualotl.

They won't let anyone go once the Rot is so near, Nochtli thinks to himself. He'll have to celebrate the Rekindling here in this foreign place - this "Westeros".

But not all is lost. There's still one captive left. This last one, ruddy faced and brown haired, is more portly than the other squid worshippers, and now that his time has come the man comes apart at the seams. His eyes glance here and there as if still working through an escape. His manacled hands hold each other tight. He shivers under his grey indigene rags, possessed not by cold but by the dark hunger for life.

[[You,]] says Nochtli, pointing to this last indigene. He nods for Septa to ask him.

"Who do you serve, my son?" asks Septa.

"I…" begins the captive. He looks around to see the Blades looking on. He leans forward to speak.

"I serve the Seven, Septa," says the captive, "I keep to the new gods! My - my allegiance to the Drowned God is just -" he whispers low, "- to keep up appearances. Things are hard on the Iron Isles, but I keep to the new ways Septa, it's just that a man has to do what he has to do-"

"That he does," says Septa, "and I am sure the Father will judge you justly my son, but that judgement is to come later."

"Intercede for me Septa!" says the captive. He falls to his knees and takes Septa's wrinkled hand, kissing it.

"Please, I will reform my ways if you can save me Septa," says the captive.

"It's not for me to decide," says Septa, "on this these feathered barbarians are clear. I am only to interpret. You decide if you will serve or die."

"Then I will serve!" says the captive.

Although Nochtli doesn't have a good handle on the indigene tongue the captive's fear is so clear that he and the other Blades chuckle.

[[He will serve,]] confirms Septa for Nochtli.

[[Good,]] says Nochtli, [[what do we call him?]]

"What is your name, my son?" Septa asks the captive.

"Lodos," says the portly captive.

Nochtli dismisses the gathered Blades so that only he, Mixkoatl, and the two younger Blades, One-eyed Olin and Ek Chuah remain with the captive. Together they escort Lodos back down the rocky cliffside, following the stone pathway leading below, leaving the Ehecatl and the other blood priests to sit and contemplate teotl by the sea.

The rough stone wall curves leftward as Nochtli makes his way back down rocky path with the captives and the others. The tall stone barrier that serves as the cove's concealing curtain rises up on his right, and beyond that, the open ocean. The strongest of the sea's waves crash against these great stones, sending water splashing up the top, but protecting the cove so that only the mildest of waves manage to wash in. To his left the seawater bay extends deep into the earth, underneath a tall stone ceiling from where the Commander's new pet crow flutters here and there. The Ixtehuetlon, reunited with them after its run in with the indigene of the western shore, is moored to the rocky shore nearest to Nochtli near the mouth of the cove. The Loatilistli is moored farther in on the opposite shore, it's four proud masts only half way reaching the cove's ceiling.

The Atlacal encampment is made up of tents set up along the inside of the cove where the Hammers, the Needles, the Shields, and the other Blades, just over a hundred in number, maintain their residence. Here in this cold, salt encrusted place they piece together the comforts of home: some of the Hammers take a break to improvise a tune on their ivory flutes, a few Shields gather together to smoke tobacco out of makeshift pipes, and some of the Needles have swept a flat portion of the cove clean of loose stones where they've drawn the bounds of an Ulmetl court in chalk. Two teams now play, hitting the rubber ball around, the captain of either side wearing improvised akolmi on their forearms. As the evening approaches the air begins to take the scents of supper - the smell of maize-meal being crisped, of beans being cooked, and of the myriad earthy spices the Atlacal are testing on the gamey flesh of the hoofed beasts of this foreign land, the ones the indigene call 'boars'.

Near the innermost part of the cove stand the four wattle and daub structures, like clean sepia-colored adobe, with wooden roofs that serve as the various rooms where the Commander and his council draw up plans. A fifth wooden framework is currently under construction by the dozen captives the Atlacal have already taken. Eight of them are fishermen pulled from stray boats the Atlacal have come across and four are travellers, like Septa, taken as they camped along the coast. Although the captives are not bound in anyway, five Blade fighters oversee them, each of them brandishing their Blacksheen maces.

The staging room is the most stable of the structures, built by the Atlacal Hammers instead of the clumsy inexperienced captives. Above the entrance to the square structure hang the three triangle flags of the Triple Alliance: the three emerald and crimson reeds of Atlacal, the golden rope and knot cross of Holy Iwaniku, and the four white and black hawk feathers of Hinojovo. One-eyed Olin and Ek Chuah step ahead first to lead the way for Lodos behind them, and Nochtli and Mixkoatl behind him.

Inside the building the platform floor and the inner walls are clean and flat. On the lower part of the walls are low tables and shelves containing delicate ceramic jars of ink and poultices, and higher up are strung caches of rations in netted bags. On the very back wall the three flags of the Triple Alliance are hung. Four wooden pillars hold up the roof and at the center of the square they create there is a table, low to the ground, covered in one large sheet of amate paper where the council's minds have charted a rough map of this indigene coast line.

Seated at the table are the heads of the Atlacal expedition:

Yaretzi, the young head of the Needles who serve as Tlon's ambassadors and explorers, sits on the right, her black hair tied back in a messy bun so that she can better read the amate scrolls before her. Her hands are stained with black ink and all around her person, on her chin and her forehead and a few spots on her blue and white tunic, one can see where she's left her own fingerprints.

Beside her sits Tizoc, seated on the ground with his back ramrod straight and his head inclined just so. With the murder of Captain Tenoch at Castle Starfall's hands and with the death of Captain Camaxtli in the indigene raid on the Ixtehuetlon, Tenoch was hastily promoted to Captain in their place, head of the Blades, due to his seniority. Mixkoatl clamored for Nochtli to be made Captain instead, and some of the other Blades agreed, but it was in vain. Nochtli didn't even want the title until it came within his reach, but when it was denied him he couldn't help but feel a shade of disappointment. Well, it's all for the better anyway. Captains would certainly not be allowed to return home.

Across from Tizoc sits Nayaraq, the woman who serves as the head of the Hammers, who serve as Tlon's builders. A woman of the southern wilds she is the eldest of the four heads and has her gray hair gathered together in a simple ponytail fastened with gold circlets. Her green shawl hangs long over her white-sleeved arms and she smokes tobacco out of a long pipe with intricate patterns of flowers and stones. Her orange eyes look at someplace somewhere far away, working something out.

At the center sits Commander Ikal, temporary head of the Shields, and head of them all.

[[Nochtli of the Fifth Snake Day,]] says Commander Ikal, [[who is this?]]

[[A captive sir,]] says Nochtli, [[one of the squid men sailors, willing to serve.]]

[[Hmph,]] says Commander Ikal. Although the creases of age are not yet so heavy on him he's already replaced all of his gold piercings for silver ones in the style of older and more distinguished men. Always austere he doesn't wear his plumed Commander's helm, preferring instead that his cropped black and grey hair remain uncovered. Like Nochti, the Commander has the dualistic eyes of the common Atlacal.

[[Has he already been interrogated?]] asks Ikal.

[[No sir,]] says Nochtli.

[[Good,]] says Ikal, [[sit him down. Septa will translate for us.]]

Nochtli forces Lodos to the ground with a hand on the shoulder. Septa sits down of her own accord, a little to one side so as to not impede the Commander's words.

[[What is your name, indigene?]] asks Commander Ikal.

Such is Septa's skill with both the Common Tongue and Atlajtoli that she can interpret as the Commander speaks.

"My name is Lodos," says Lodos. Then hastily, "milord."

[[Lodos,]] says Ikal, [[do you know why we've come to your shores?]]

Lodos shakes his head no.

[[We've come to help you,]] says Ikal, [[and in so doing, help ourselves.]]

"Help?" asks Lodos.

[[Yes Lodos,]] says Ikal, [[there is a great catastrophe coming of which you and your people are unaware. We want to help prevent it.]]

"A catastrophe?" asks Lodos.

How can they not know? asks Nochtli to himself. To a man, all of the indigene are ignorant of the ikualotl and completely unaware of the Rotted Ones. Like in the Moe'Uhane archipelago the indigene will need to be convinced of the benefits of cooperation and the necessity of tribute. It means a longer tour of duty, thinks Nochtli to himself, on cold foreign seas instead of the warm beaches of home.

[[Yes, a catastrophe,]] says Ikal, [[the ikualotl, the Rot of the Sun.]]

"The sun...rots?" asks Lodos.

[[Yes. Like everything else in this life, the sun lives and dies. When rot weakens the sun so too does it weaken the Emerald Hummingbird, Harbinger of War, who holds up the sun for mankind to live. We must offer sacrifice to restore the sun's teotl and to aid the Harbinger in his battle against her three siblings, lest the world fall into an eon of darkness and chaos.

I know our methods seem harsh, but such is the danger of an endless ikualotl that we cannot afford half-measures. It is to the benefit of all mankind to work together to strengthen the Sixth Sun against the ikualotl. That is why your cooperation will be met with reward.]]

These last words, at least, have a reassuring effect on Lodos and he calms his fidgeting.

"What...what would you ask of me, milord?" asks Lodos.

[[You see? All that's needed is a little understanding,]] says Commander Ikal. [[Now, Lodos, our good translator Septa here has already proven a valuable fountain of knowledge. If you want a reward you have to tell us something we don't know.]]

"What would be my reward?" asks Lodos.

[[Don't get ahead of yourself now,]] interjects Yaretzi.

[[The reward will depend on the knowledge you have to give,]] says Ikal, ignoring the ink-smudged Yaretzi, [[it's not unheard of for loyal captives to earn the title of Atlacal and all the various protections of the Tlon. And of course, their children are Atlacal as well. Provided of course they bow before the Emerald Hummingbird and the Ivory Mask.]]

Lodos nods slowly to himself, considering this.

They press Lodos for what he knows. With Septa interpreting his descriptions they get an outline of the coasts and currents, the location of the Iron Islands and their murderous relations with the mainland, the creed of the Drowned God - each piece making clearer the strange customs of these lands. As Lodos speaks of the Ironborn home islands Nochtli imagines a collection of craggy grey stones rising up from the sea, bare of vegetation, surrounded by lean ships that are manned by rough men. In his mind's eye the sky above this place is always the gray of storms and the sea around it is dark and thick with white caps. Lodos tells the assembled that the ship he sailed on was a forward scout for the new Lord Reaper of Pyke - a lunatic named Euron Greyjoy - who has vowed to sail southward and eastward with his great fleet and take whatever lands he can lay his hands on. The council presses for specifics on distances and time tables but those details are beyond a man such as Lodos, who says:

"Please, I was pressed into service, I don't know the mind of my Lord, I only know the orders told to me."

Nochtli is inclined to believe him. Unlike the other squidmen Lodos lacks the hard set jaw and the iron-eyed glare of resistance. This is not a man for the Flower Wars, Nochtli thinks to himself, I doubt he'd even be able to manage a game of Ulmetl.

[[Septa,]] says Commander Ikal, [[stop translating for us. Do not resume until I say so.]]

Septa nods and falls silent.

[[What do you think?]] asks Commander Ikal of his assembled heads, [[does he seem like a honest convert?]]

[[Look at him,]] says Nayaraq. She motions to Lodos with slight nod of the head, an act that startles Lodos, making him visibly paranoid. [[This is not a man of guile.]]

[[An illusion most certainly,]] says Yaretzi, [[all the others chose sacrifice, did they not?]]

[[Yes ma'am,]] says Nochtli.

[[What if this one wants to throw us off the trail of his, what was it, Lord Greyjoy?]] asks Yaretzi, [[They are warriors, unafraid of death. This one might be trying to earn the good graces of his pagan god before his end, or trying to earn status for his family back home.]]

Command Ikal takes this into consideration.

[[And how would he do that?]] asks Nayaraq, [[who would go and tell his Lord?]]

[[Who knows why he would do anything,]] says Tizoc, [[these indigene know nothing of teotl. Who knows what their gods 'say' to them.]]

[[Precisely,]] says Yaretzi, [[nothing can be assumed. Not when we are so few in a place so unknown. We must be sure. And there are ways to be sure, in the old histories.]]

Then, after a pause, she adds: [[The water torture would get the truth out of him.]]

At this Nochtli raises an eyebrow.

[[The water torture is barbarism,]] says Nayaraq flatly.

[[It is... _extreme,_ but perhaps-]] begins Yaretzi.

[[It is barbarism. And even _if_ we wanted to, we couldn't do it for very long,]] says Nayaraq, her incredulous orange eyes coming alive, [[he'd ask for sacrifice in an hour. Then we'd have nothing but the lowly indigenes we have now when what we need is soldiers and leaders, the ones that know things.]]

[[What if we didn't sacrifice him?]] wonders Tizoc aloud.

A pause, like time stuttering, takes hold in the air for a moment.

Stunned, Nochtli forgets his rank and asks aloud: [[You mean, we don't sacrifice him, even if he asks for his teotl to be released?]]

Another pause.

[[Yes,]] says Captain Tizoc.

Nochtli finds himself surprised at how simply the word drifts into the air and becomes real. How casually someone could offer up such heresy. The others take notice of it too: Commander Ikal's go wide with morbid possibility, Yaretzi's gaze becomes hard and serious, Tizoc surveys the reaction to his words, and Nayaraq takes a long drag from her pipe. The other Blades look on, waiting for a voice.

[[If he asks for sacrifice we grant it to him,]] says Nayaraq, [[the ikualotl-]]

[[Only wondering aloud,]] says Tizoc, [[we would grant it to him, yes, but one has to account for all possibilities. What if the situation were dire?]]

Commander Ikal listens to this, nodding.

[[Our situation _is_ dire,]] says Yaretzi, [[it's just under two years until the sun must be Rekindled.]]

[[So we're to repeat the mistakes of Moe'Uhane then?]] asks Nayaraq, [[the torture there did nothing but justify the belief we were evil-]]

[[We needn't push him to death,]] offers Commander Ikal, [[just, well, just a drop of the water torture would be enough to intimidate him, would it not?]]

[[It will frighten the others,]] offers Nayaraq, [[If word ever spreads that the Ivory Mask administers the water torture to it's captives then they'll all choose sacrifice. This has all happened before. You all know it.]]

The Commander considers this as well, his hand in his chin, looking hard at the rough map of Westeros.

[[Nochtli, bring the buckets to the room with the locked door,]] says Commander Ikal.

Nayaraq takes a drag of her pipe and stares knives at the Commander.

[[Sir,]] says Nochtli. He bows his in acquiescence but then he pauses, [[Sir, if I may, so few captives choose service and the Hummingbird's Edict says that-]]

[[Nochtli of the Fifth Snake Day that is your second unsolicited interjection,]] says Commander Ikal, [[one more and you'll go without rations for a week.]]

Nochtli falls silent.

[[Bring the buckets and make sure they're full of water,]] says Commander Ikal, [[I just want him to think that we're preparing something, let him build an illusion in his mind. Septa, tell him that he will be isolated from the other captives, since we aren't sure of his motives yet.]]

Septa opens her mouth to speak once more, making this all clear in the Common Tongue.

"No!" cries Lodos, "please, I've told you everything I know, I've answered every question you've asked!"

[[It isn't enough to answer when asked,]] says Ikal through Septa, [[a good servant anticipates the needs of his tlatoani.]]

"I…," begins Lodos, "alright, yes, I have more to tell milord! You will like this I know it! The Ironfleet - the ships of Euron Greyjoy, they'll sail around the Arbor instead of through the straits - the ironborn have already sacked the ports there. Did you know that?"

The assembled Atlacal take note of the Arbor on the map but appear otherwise unimpressed.

"The- the Arbor is known for it's wines! Best in all of Westeros! Wine so luxurious and expensive that only the monarchs of the Iron Throne have known it's taste! Surely milord likes wine?" offers Lodos.

[[Remind us, what is wine Septa?]] asks Ikal.

[[Fermented juice of a fruit,]] says Septa.

Nochtli, Yaretzi and Tizoc all make faces of disgust.

"Ah, no, no wine perhaps, but Lord Greyjoy - the new Lord Greyjoy, Euron, he- he wants to finish off the resistance on the Arbor, sack the ports on the outside of the island, before he sets sail to the east to make his offer of marriage to the Queen of Mereen, the Mother of Dragons, that way he can then set sail for-"

Lodos prattles on but there is where Septa stumbles through her interpreting.

[[Septa,]] says Commander Ikal, [[why did you stop? What is he saying?]]

[[Forgive me milord,]] says Septa, [[I am not sure how to translate this word he's used.]]

[[Which word is that?]] asks Yaretzi.

"Dragon," says Septa.

"Drragoan," says Ikal, testing the word out, [[Lodos, what is a "Dragon"? I don't believe our Septa has made mention of such a thing.]]

At hearings this Lodos stops, confused, a relieved smile settling on his face.

THE DARKSTAR RISES ON THE HORIZON

The guards at the towers shout out when they first spot him. Sarella Sand, accustomed to rising early for study, hears their echoing cries as she descends down the stairs from the guest quarters of Castle Starfall to the library. It isn't clear what the guards are saying at first but after a few moments their shouting becomes clears: the banners of the approaching riders bear the white sword, the falling star, and the lavender field of House Dayne.

There is no mention of orange banners, red suns, or golden spears.

The Darkstar? Thinks Sarella to herself.

As if to convince her, the guards start wondering this aloud as well:

"The Darkstar! It must be the Darkstar!"

"Has he sent outriders? A raven?"

"Someone find Ser Brownstone!"

"Man the parapets!"

And so on.  
Obara must have reached High Hermitage days ago, thinks Sarella to herself as she recalls the instructions of Prince Doran's message. Starfall's assistance was never necessary; Allyria Dayne only needed to prove she was not part of some conspiracy against the Sunspear. Obara was supposed to have the Darkstar in custody by the time Sarella arrived in Starfall, so that he could be used in Doran's greater strategy against the Lannisters and 'Baratheons' of the Iron Throne. That would have meant Sarella could have gone back to playing her little game in the Citadel - what does it mean now if the Darkstar rides free?

Could Obara be dead? Sarella wonders to herself. She's one of the best fighter's Sarella's ever known, her being cut down is unthinkable. But the Darkstar is Darkstar.  
Sarella rushes back up the stairs to grab her things. It's early enough in the morning that the guards are having trouble rousing the rest of their compatriots and it's easy for her to slip through the halls in the groggy chaos before battle. She makes her way to the treasury, the place that Edric showed her, where the greatsword Dawn is kept. The guards posted to the treasury doors are gone and after Sarella slips through inside she finds that the interior rooms are locked. The room that holds Dawn is barred with an intricate wrought iron gate, depicting the stars and sky at twilight. Holding it shut is an iron lock, large, heavy, and intricate in the shape of a seven pointed star. Much tougher to break than the ornate latches the Maester use for their oldest baubles, thinks Sarella to herself. She tries to tickle the contraption into releasing the doors, but her tools are not match for the job - even if she had the time to test the lock's interior, she'd need something with a different hook and made of stronger steel.

The Darkstar will have Dawn, Sarella thinks to herself.

But there are other things in Starfall worth taking.

In the far distance the guardsmen of Castle Starfall start shouting out their guesses for the number of riders: one hundred, two hundred, no- at least four hundred riders.

Why would the Darkstar ride in so early? Sarella isn't sure, but it makes slipping down into the dungeons easy. The stone work goes from pale whites and greys to dark granite and brown as she descends down into the earth under the castle. Whenever she runs into a guard dozing off at his post she makes it a point to wake him up and alert him that the rogue Dayne approaches the castle with an army at his back. Hearing the panic in Sarella's voice as well as the panic echoing in through the castle halls, no guard looks back at her as they scramble away, jolted into action but still half asleep.

Down in the mildewy dungeon there isn't much to see with but it doesn't matter. Sarella can pick through the big clumsy doors without much trouble - they're child's play compared to puzzlebox upstairs in the treasury. Once she's made it into the cells she hurries down to the door in the back corner, farthest away from the torchlight. With a few deft motions the lock falls to the ground with a hard metallic clang and Sarella pushes open the dark wooden door, chasing away the dark with a torchlight.

Once she's inside Sarella can smell the humanity of the room - the waste and the spit and the blood. In the soft orange light Yolotl's thin frame comes into view. He kneels on the ground with his arms raised just over his head so that his ribs are clearly visible. The rest of the cell is mercifully hidden by the shadows.

[[Sacrifice…]] says Yolotl, [[please, I choose sacrifice…]]

[[Quiet]], says Sarella, [[I help, but only if quiet.]]

There is a pause during which Yolotl's gaze rests on the floor.

[[I will be quiet,]] says Yolotl.

Sarella goes to free him from his manacles but she hesitates. How trustworthy can he be? He's not some barbarian, he's got more reason than Ser Brownstone or Allyria give him credit for. But he isn't Westerosi either. His people do not follow the old gods or the new, his people kill one another in the name of their own gods, for their own reasons.

[[If you will not free me,]] says Yolotl, [[then please, release my teotl.]]

Sarella undoes his chains and wraps the thin Atlacal in a heavy hooded cloak. Yolotl struggles to his feet, leaning on her to steady his malnourished sinewy frame.

[[No,]] says Sarella, [[you live.]]

[[Do...do you claim me as your captive?]] asks Yolotl.

[[I ah...yes,]] says Sarella, [[I claim.]]

[[I would prefer sacrifice,]] mutters Yolotl.

Sarella doesn't know how to respond - people are rarely so sanguine when speaking of death.

Yolotl sighs.

[[ _I am but broken prey for the Golden Jaguar,_ ]] whispers Yolotl to himself.

"Come on," says Sarella, unsure of her new prisoner.

* * *

All of House Dayne is armed and ready by the time the Darkstar comes within the range of the archers, but no action is taken. If they allow the Darkstar to approach they will lose their advantage, but what if the Darkstar comes with peaceful intentions? The guards wonder this aloud to themselves and offer their musings to Ser Brownstone, but he, the Maester, and Allyria don't have to wonder. They know Gerold Dayne will bring no harm to the pale stone walls of Castle Starfall.

Allyria watches him from one of the windows of the central staircase. Atop a pitch black courser the Darkstar sits up straight, dressed in black and purple finery, his silver hair moving in motion with the horse's step with the black streak falling across one of his eyes. Gerold leads his men through the gates, his head held high with two bannermen holding up the lavender heralds of House Dayne at his back. He's still as handsome a man as Allyria remembers, and his eyes still move in the cold and focused manner of a predator.

Ser Brownstone meets with the Darkstar down in the castle courtyard. As they speak down below Allyria takes her young nephew aside, away from the window, and says to him:

"I will deal with cousin Gerold alone."

"But I am the Lord of Starfall," says Edric. His mind has been set alight by the guardsmen rushing about with their hands on their hilts, "A lord is responsible for his cadet-"

"You will always be my little Lord," says Allyria, "but you are not Lord of Starfall yet. I am still the stewardess for a few months more," says Allyria, "a stewardship appointed by your father."

Edric says nothing, just stares hard at Allyria.

"You're too young to remember Gerold Dayne," says Allyria, "By the time you were born his childhood tantrums had already curdled into the cruelty he has now. You don't know what he was like as a boy. You don't remember how Arthur always had to follow him around to keep him in check around me and Ashara, how he would shoot down ravens for fun or slaughter stray cats-"

"A good Lord is responsible for his cadet branch," repeats Edric, "moreso if they've dishonored his name."

He wants to be brave, Allyria thinks herself, but this is not about bravery.

"And a good Lord listens to wise counsel," insists Allyria, "I know the Darkstar's tricks and you do not, my little Lord. _I_ will speak to the Darkstar."

The Darkstar will not corrupt my little Edric, thinks Allyria herself.

Edric looks back out the window, down at where the Darkstar and Ser Brownstone treat with one another, their best fighters close at hand.

"Why don't we kill him?" asks Edric. His question has no malice behind it, something that frightens Allyria. She reminds herself that the boy was a squire and knows well that men die, but to see such mortal frankness in the curiosity of a boy of only two and ten is unsettling.

"We can't kill him now that he's been let in, he's protected by the guest right," says Allyria, "if House Dayne's honor is damaged by the Darkstar, violating the guest right would only damage it more. I will hear him speak and see what he has to say about his attempt on the princesses' life."

"But if killing is wrong, what excuse could he have?" asks Edric.

"That's what I'm going to figure out," says Allyria.

Allyria doesn't give the Darkstar the pleasure of meeting him in the Lord's solar before the assembled court. Now that he's here he's liable to inform the court of the illicit agreement he's managed to fulfill.

No, in the small council room. Just him and her - not even Ser Brownstone, desperate to demonstrate his chivalry to her, will be in the room. He must wait at the door, entering only if Allyria cries out.

And so there she waits at the head of the table.

She does not rise to greet him, nor does he bow to greet her.

The Darkstar always looks pleased with himself. As he enters the room he gives her a wry look, as if simply seeing her confirms that he will receive his reward. He wears fine clothes of black and deep purple so that his fair skin and silver hair stand out all the more, the black streak in his locks brushed carefully to his left side. Allyria gives him only a neutral look, but this does nothing to temper Gerold Dayne's disposition.

"Are you really so bashful about what people will say?" asks Gerold, "I know that marrying cousins is more uncommon in Dorne, but the Dragonlords-"

"You are not a Dragonlord," says Allyria, "no matter how much you look like one."

"Good to see you're in a fine mood," says Gerold.

"Why would a I be in a fine mood?" asks Allyria, "the Sunspear has sent word of your crimes, one of the Sand Snakes is here searching for you."

"I have no fear of snakes," says Gerold, "I was weaned on their venom. If anything, I like to keep them as pets."

"I am not joking-"

"And neither am I. The Sunspear sent a Sand Snake to High Hermitage - the fiercest from that pit of vipers to the east - and now she's chained to a wall in a dungeon. That is what _I_ do with snakes," says Gerold, then: "Who did they send you? Nymeria? Tyene?"

"Sarella," says Allyria.

"Ah, the Islander girl with a taste for scrolls," says Gerold, "I'm sure her quill was a terrifying threat."

"You, you took Obara prisoner?" asks Allyria, her mind not quite keeping up with what's being told to her.

"Yes," says Gerold.

He places his hands behind his back and smiles once more.

"Areo Hotah however is dead," says Gerold, "He fought bravely and fiercely, but not well enough."

"Prince Doran's Captain of guards is dead," says Allyria to herself, "Gerold, what in the Seven's name does this accomplish?"

"It accomplishes what I promised you," says Gerold, "what you promised _me_."

"Gerold," begins Allyria, "you can't believe that what I said to you-"

"It was a promise," says Gerold, his smile gone, replaced by a cold angry mask, "offered and accepted. If you didn't want it done you shouldn't have said anything. But you _wanted_ it done."

"It was made in jest," says Allyria, "to have House Dayne rule all of Dorne was fanciful thinking, the delirious chatterings of a girl in mourning. It was never meant to be serious - surely you must know that."

"You did not say that then," says Gerold.

"Because I thought it was _understood_ ," says Allyria, "how can you believe that I would give you the sword and, and _me-_ "

"Ser Brownstone and the Maester know we made an agreement," says Gerold, "you might be able to beguile that dust covered knight into lying but the Maester will speak the truth."

Allyria did not have the foresight to bring a knife with her. Not that it would have mattered. The Darkstar is the Darkstar, he would have plucked the blade right out of her hands before she could bring it to his slender pale neck. How thin the thread that separates a world where she must endure this gifted murderer from a world where she does not.

"Even if we were to take the promise as truly offered and accepted," says Allyria, "House Dayne is no nearer to ruling Dorne now than it was before you tried to murder a little girl."

"It would have been better if I'd gotten to the girl while she was in Doran's custody, then the blame would fall more directly on him, but Arianne is his heir, and is close enough to him for it to count," says Gerold.

"The girl will say it was _you!_ " shouts Allyria.

"The girl is dead," says Gerold flatly, "she was always going to die. Or did you think the Sand Snakes were just going to let the girl go back to her mother in one piece? Their stated lust for vengeance unfulfilled? Doran was the only one holding them back, and now that he's drowning himself in milk of the poppy they've made their move."

"How do you know this?" asks Allyria.

"When you keep snakes as pets you find they whisper all sorts of things," says Gerold, "given the right pressure."

Where is Sarella? Allyria wonders to herself.

"If anything, the Sand Snakes finished my work for me," says Gerold, "the fury of the Lannisters will fall upon House Martell, and once the Lannisters learn that we've been declared enemies of the Sunspear, we will appear that much more friendly."

Allyria looks away from him. These could be lies - they probably _are_ lies. But she can't deny that their is a rhythm to them. The Darkstar is cruel, but he is calculating in his cruelty. His way isn't that of blind rage. No, he is a voyeur of suffering, one who delights in the planning as much as the observing.

She looks back and notices him observing her now.

"Cersei Lannister will send someone to find vengeance for her daughter soon," he continues, "and in that time we will be safe, as the Sunspear must still be wary of the Golden Company now raiding the Stormlands. For however long that engagement takes Doran will be unable to send anyone out this far - they'd risk leaving their shores undefended against the sellswords. Whatever standing force they could spare I could deal with easily, provided I had the Dawn in my hands."

And if I deny him? Allyria thinks to herself. Any other man she could award the greatsword to would surely fall to the Darkstar. The milk-glass blade is sharp, strong, and never needs sharpening, but it's still only a sword - it's strength is its place as symbol, the awe it inspires and the title it bestows. Should the Darkstar take Dawn from the hands of a dead man the other local noble houses would doubtless recognize him as the true Sword of the Morning, both by rite of conquest, and from a fear of the Darkstar's retribution.

But there must be another move, there must be some other way.

"You will not receive Dawn until House Dayne rules Dorne," says Allyria, "or don't you remember the _promise?_ "

Malevolence flashes across Gerold's face so fiercely that for a moment Allyria thinks he might strike her, but the moment passes, and his false smile returns.

"And besides, there are other matters to consider," says Allyria, "the barbarian raiders are still plundering the coastline and we haven't yet found where they disappear to. Not to mention that the silver mines-"

"I am sorry to hear that Caste Starfall finds itself in trying times," says Gerold, "but without a good sword to aid me, there is only so much help I can provide."

Now he steps closer to her. She pretends not to notice.

"Perhaps we should consider nuance," says Gerold, "I am halfway to fulfilling my end of the promise, why can't you, my dear Allyria, help me see it through?" He places his hand on her shoulder but she shrugs it off, pulling herself away from him.

"I was promised two things," says Gerold, "it seems fair to me that if I've accomplished half of what I promised, I should receive half of what I'm owed. So which half do you think I should receive first?"

"How can you possibly measure the halfway point? How can you know your plan is halfway complete? Or that it will be completed at all?" asks Allyria, "all your hopes lie with whether or not some company of foreign sellswords will distract the Sunspear, the same Sunspear that held strong against the Targaryen army."

"It's been a long time since Aegon's Conquest," says Gerold, "a great many things have changed in the world. Barristan Selmy was once the greatest swordsman in all of Westeros, but now he is dead, and the bards now sing that the greatest swordsman in Westeros is now the Darkstar.

"Give me the sword. Or put before me a challenger, any challenger. I'll fight them two or three at a time if it'll get through them faster."

Now Gerold leans toward Allyria, putting his eyes level with hers.

"And once they're all dead you'll finally see that the decision has already been made. Dawn will be wielded by the best swordsman in the land, just as it's always been."


	5. Part 5

[These introductory notes are quite good at dealing with alignment issues caused by the chapter select.]

* * *

LOMYS SNEAKS AND CITLALI PLOTS

The best time to go sneaking around the Sunhouse is in the hour before dinner time. Young men come in past the castle walls, bringing with them the day's hunting and fishing as young maids set out to tend to their ladies in waiting. The ovens down in the kitchens roar into life as the servants begin to cook the meat for dinner, shouting angrily at one another form time to time when something tastes wrong and more herbs need to be sent for. The evening light, the natural stopping point for work, settles into the eyes and arms and legs of the various members of the court around the castle and so they wander far from their rooms or desks, commiserating with one another over another day come to an end. Ambassadors, clergymen, and merchants of coin enough to be worth entertaining are the only ones who tend to stay in their rooms during this time, weary from travel or business, not liable to be paying much attention to the footfalls out in the hall.

Where there are rugs Lomys makes sure to step, so as to quiet his wanderings. Where there is only stone floor Lomys makes sure to step heel first, rolling his foot onto the floor, so as to avoid making echoes. Where there is someone else coming down the hall Lomys doesn't do anything. With familiarity the highborn no longer seem to notice him. Although he's meant to be Citlali's interpreter, a position that one might expect would earn him a certain scholarly respect, he's treated like a servant. Something above a maid but below an armed guard. He doesn't much mind it. When they do demand your attention it isn't a pleasant experience: the highborn have a thousand little ways of reminding you that you're lowborn. The way they don't look at you when they speak. Annunciating their "My Lady" in the face of Lomys' lowly "milady". The little 'lessons' they so 'graciously' will bestow, that he is obliged to listen to. Better that they see him as part of the background and pass without looking at him. Makes it easier to eavesdrop.

Last month the social commotion centered around rumors that the young Lady Bethany Cuy, Lord Branston's daughter, had given up her maidenhead to one of the guardsmen, a man six years her senior. From listening to those little snippets dropped by the roving packs of lesser nobles, and to those conversations the guards have with one another when they think no one is around, and to those speculative discussions of the maids and cooks down in the kitchen, Lomys learned that Lord Brantson had meant to use his daughter's hand in marriage politically, strategically, and that Lady Bethany's indiscretion upset all sorts of plans.

Lord Branston had, apparently, planned a trip to the Citadel, since the Maesters there would not trust the veracity of his claims to have captured a "barbarian princess of yet unknown origin". So, since they would not come and see Citlali, Branston would take Citlali to see the Maesters. Now however he would need to delay that trip in order to go see the young man who was to be Bethany's betrothed - one Merrell Redwyne, from a cadet branch of the Arbor Redwynes - in order to assuage his fears and to convince him his daughters integrity is still intact.

This is what Lomys is thinking about as he rounds a corner of the hallway and makes his way to the ravenry. Ser Durand is fond of coming to see what messages the ravens have brought around this time of day, and even more fortunately for Lomys, Durand often likes to discuss them with Maester Remir who cares for the ravens themselves.

The ravenry of the Sunhouse occupies the northeast corner of the top five floors of the tower, just below the glass structure that gives the castle it's name. From the outside one can look up at the Sunhouse and see the series of small windows carved out of the stone that demarcates it, with black silhouettes of birds always flitting in and out. From the inside - well, from the inside Lomys doesn't know. The door that leads inside is heavy and always locked to ensure that only trustworthy individuals have the access to read or write a message. Lomys must consign himself to sit outside the door, feigning boredom, waiting for Ser Durand's booming voice to expound on the tidings that come from afar.

"They...by the seven..." says Ser Durand from beyond the door, "Remir, come, read this."  
There's a long pause as the other reads.

"The Sept of Baelor?" asks the Maester.

"The Sept of Baelor, the king," says Ser Durand, "it's no trick, you saw the royal seal yourself."

"Yes," says Maester Remir, "yes of course it's real, it's just that-"

"By the seven," says Durand again, "the Sept of Baelor. The King."

The king, Lomys learned recently, is no longer Joffrey Baratheon, who was poisoned some time ago at his own wedding, but is now in fact Tommen Baratheon, his younger brother. Both married the same woman, Margaery Tyrell, which Lomys found strange. His eavesdropping hasn't yet made clear to him whether marrying your dead brother's wife is royal custom or mere happenstance.

"It's unbelievable," says Durand.

"It'd have to be someone who…" begins Remir, "well, I don't know, I'm still trying to think about how much _stonework_ is involved in the Sept's construction-"

"Who _could_ do it?" asks Durand, "the message says it was green, _wildfire_ -"

"The Alchemists," says Maester Remir, "the damn _pyromancers."_

"But what hatred do the Alchemists have for the Sept? And all the others…" says Durand.  
The Sept of Baelor is a massive domed cathedral dedicated to the Seven in King's Landing. This Lomys knew before coming to the Sunhouse. Sometimes out on the farm a travelling Septon or Septa would come through, preaching the way of the new gods and telling of the wonders that the Good King Baelor built with his faith.

"Lord Branston will want to know about this right away," says Maester Remir, "Tyrells are among the dead."

"'Final accounting to follow...,'" says Durand. Then, "I'll bring this to Lord Cuy myself."

Sensing a door swinging open in the near future Lomys picks himself up and makes his way down the hall so that by the time Ser Durand exits the ravenry he's nowhere in sight.

Being lowborn and uninvited Lomys isn't allowed inside the feast hall where the Cuy family is having their evening meal. To catch tidbits of their goings on he has to post himself in the unused corner of one of the busy hallways that the serving maids use, near the feast hall entrance, so that the conversation of the highborn slips through without trouble. Although Ser Durand is in the feast hall speaking with the family Lomys hasn't heard conversation come to a stop and then start up again as is the style when bad tidings are delivered. He must be waiting for the right moment, Lomys thinks to himself. What a luxury, to have people around you who will try to lessen your suffering in such a way.

And yet there are still more luxuries to behold. When he first arrives to start dropping eaves he walks past the entrance to the feast hall and catches sight once more of all the fine things of House Cuy. The gleaming silver they eat with and off of, the clean cut banners of royal blue and bright yellow that demarcate their house, the still lifes of all different types of flowers hanging on the wall, and the food: marinated leeks as long as his forearm, basketfuls of fresh baked bread, grilled fish fillets drizzled with yellow sauce, a thick stew of onions and carrots, and at the center of it all a golden brown pig, roasted, with an apple in its mouth. Lomys' mouth waters to see it all, and his stomach growls as the smell of it wafts out to his half shadowed corner outside. If he's lucky, in a few hours from now, some of these fine things will reach his and Citlali's rooms in the form of scraps, all mixed in together as a slop. Seeing it now offers him a little respite. At least when he eats later he can for a moment imagine his teeth sinking into the crispy flesh of the roast pork.

Lomys imagines what Calissa and Leander might have said if they could see all this food before them. Probably nothing, probably they would run right for it and dive into the sweetcakes hoping to eat as many they could before being wrestled off of them. Their mother would scold them, fearful of how they would look eating in such a way in front of others, but their father would laugh and say to their mother that she shouldn't be so strict, they're only children after all. He can imagine all of them speaking with such clarity that for a moment he forgets that they're dead.

The Cuys however never discuss the food. Nor do they ever discuss the silverware or the decorations of the hall, although sometimes, when Bethany Cuy has bought some new dress, they'll talk about that for a little while. Otherwise their conversations circle around coin. Lord Branston Cuy often complains of debts, both those he owes and those that are owed to him. His wife Lady Irithia Cuy is most concerned not with golden dragons themselves but of the things they buy: the silk, the finery, and the good jewelry that must always be better than the next nearest Lady's. Bethany Cuy for her part speaks rarely speaks about coin, preferring to let her parents agonize over the details, voicing concern only when her coin purse feels lighter. And they don't speak of it in the dainty language that Lomys always imagined the highborn would have.

"How much did you ask them for?" asks Irithia Cuy.

"It wasn't much," says Branston Cuy, "a fraction of what we owe, less than the interest-"

"You said we weren't going to spend any more until we got our debts in line," says Irithia, "that's why Bethany and I won't have those new emeralds by the harvest feast-"

"This expenditure is _necessary-"_ begins Branston.

"Necessary?" interrupts Irithia, "in what possible way can getting drunk in Oldtown be _necessary?_ "

"I've told you before woman," says Branston, "the Citadel is a place of learning, the Maesters-"

"Are the ones you get drunk with," says Irithia, "yes, yes, all to _curry favor,_ to help with _prestige-"_

"-and once they are convinced they will send their scholars, all of whom will gladly spend the coin to sleep in a fine bed and dine with the Lord of the Sunhouse-"

"Oh don't give me that _shit_ -" begins Irithia.

"Mother! Please!" says Bethany Cuy.

"Don't mother please me!" says Irithia, "it's your father that's burying us in debt!"

"Once the Maesters see her they will come and study," says Branston, "first for the girl then for the plants. I will remind you that we have almost _doubled_ the number of species in the Sunhouse-"

"Oh yes," says Irithia, "now we have sixteen different varieties of fucking _turnips-_ "

"Mother I will not sit here and listen to your cursing," says Bethany, "if we cannot have a civil discussion then I ask to be excused."

"She's quite right dear," chimes in Branston.

"Seven save me from these-" says Irithia before stopping herself. Then: "Ser Durand, on with it."

"My Lady?" says Ser Durand.

"You have something to say," says Irithia, "it was clear from the moment you sat down to eat. On with it. I hope it's worse than my husband pissing our livelihood away, wouldn't that be something."

"Ah, well, I do have tidings from King's Landing," says Ser Durand. He then reads the raven's message, detailing the wildfire explosion that consumed the great old Sept, the deaths of all those assembled for the trial of Margaery Tyrell, and the suicide of the young king Tommen.

"Which other of the Tyrells are dead?" asks Branston Cuy.

"Only Margaery is named, my Lord," says Ser Durand.

"Her father would have been there," says Irithia, "her mother too, and whatever lesser Tyrells those two keep in their entourage."

"Poor king Tommen," says Bethany Cuy.

"Far too young," agrees Branston Cuy, "but if this is what lead him to ending his own life, then he was not fit to be king."

"Father!" says Bethany.

"It's true," says Irithia, "perhaps it's better this way. Imagine what he'd feel if he ever lead men into battle?"

Bethany says nothing and Lomys cannot peek inside to see her reaction.

"What of the Queen of Thorns?" asks Irithia.

"She should be in Highgarden," says Branston, "or on her way to King's Landing, but not at the Sept itself."  
There's a silence.

"Well," says Irithia, "she's has more pressing matters than our debt to worry about now."

"Undoubtedly," agrees Branston.

"I'll need a new black dress," says Bethany to herself, "to wear in mourning of the king."  
"Ask your father," says Irithia.

"You have black dress now Bethany," says Branston, "I'm not sure if there's room in the budget for such luxury-"

"Room in the- oh you selfish little-"

The squabble over Lord Cuy's trip to the Citadel is revived, with Lord Cuy aggrieved that it must be delayed and Lady Cuy aggrieved that it's being taken at all. After listening for a few minutes and deducing that nothing more of importance is going to be said, Lomys takes his leave. The servants will be taking the plates out soon and they sometimes get annoyed to see him sitting there, lowborn but somehow exempt from work.

Bad news travels quick, the worse the quicker. The serving maids whisper about the conversations the Cuys had about King Tommen, from there word quickly spreads to the other servants of the Sunhouse, and from there the nobles will learn of it when they ask their favorite maids about the day's gossip. By the time Lomys makes it halfway back up to his room next to Citlali's people and guards have begun collecting themselves into little groups of three or four. That the Cuys reacted coldly to news of their King's death goes largely unremarked upon, that ground being well tread. Instead these little pockets of conversation busy themselves expressing their disbelief, asking for confirmation, remarking on the terror of such a fiery method of death, piling their grief onto the memory of the dead boy king, and then, finally, beginning their musings on who could have been responsible and why.

Lomys doesn't know how such events could inspire such commotion. He didn't know the king, nor any Baratheon, nor Lannister, nor any single person from King's Landing or even thereabouts. Their little gasps of surprise and their "Seven save him"s irk Lomys for reasons that are not entirely clear to him. Somewhere in the core of him he recognizes that their grief is illusory, that it's mere formality, that it is quite unlike the unending feeling of hollowness that characterizes his own grief, and this serves only to remind him of his own loneliness. He knows this but being lowly he cannot muster the words to say them to himself in the way a wise Lord might do, and so he feels himself all the more inept and alone.

But that's not true, Lomys reminds himself, over and over again, I have Citlali, we have each other.

Citlali has waited patiently in her stone room in her stone tower for the Queen of Thorns to come and free her. She knew it would take a little while of course. One has to account for travel and all the various administration that has to happen, she is a queen after all. Then of course there's also the sending of ravens to make her orders clear to Lord Cuy, which would take time too. But days turned into weeks and weeks into a month, then another, and word has yet to come. No rescue, just more of the same: more hard indigene grassbread and grotesque milkrot, more time staring at stone walls, more chirping in Atlajtoli for any passing tourist Lord Cuy thinks he can extract a few coins from. The Queen has forgotten me, Citlali thinks to herself. Over the course of this time it dawns on Citlali that she really may not be free when the ikualotl comes, that she will not be able to celebrate the Rekindling back home.

This was always a possibility of course. Citlali was not ignorant of the risks when she volunteered for one of the far voyages - she accepted them as part and parcel of her duty. She knew that seeking gifts for the sun would not be as easy as simply sailing on a ship, having a pleasant conversation with natives, and leaving laden with exotic luxuries. She knew this vision was untrustworthy, ruled by the same shifting logic that dominates dreams, and yet she could not turn away from it's false brightness. How stupid I was, thinks Citlali to herself. These are not the times of the Quiet Conquest, these are not the noble tribes of Ayamictlan, she does not wear the Ivory Mask. This is a repetition of Moe'Uhane. All of this has happened before. Citlali chastises herself for not having the wisdom to see the entirety of this illusion.

As Moe'Uhane is on her mind so also is the flotilla of the Triple Alliance. The Tlon of Citlali's era, the Tlon of the Ninth Year of the House, will not wish to repeat the mistakes of his predecessor in the archipelago. The Tonatli Teon, third of their exploratory fleet, would have surely arrived home by now. Citlali imagines the Ivory Mask gathering together his generals in his scarlet and jade throne room, amassing together ships on the eastern coast of Atlacal, and setting them forth to establish a foothold in this new land. By now they must be on their way back, right? Yes, she assures herself. And they will have the force to demand Citlali's release. The Atlacal take care of their own, and the knowledge she's gained from living with the indigene, amongst one of their tlatoani no less, will surely be invaluable. But how would they know she's at the Sunhouse?

It is this question that makes Citlali realize that waiting patiently will no longer do.

Much to her advantage the Cuys have viewed her early dedication to patience as good behavior. As a reward they have oh so graciously allowed her to wander outside her room. Only around her floor of the Sunhouse of course - guards are posted at the stairwells to make sure she doesn't ever overstep her bounds. It wouldn't do to lose a source of coin.

More than enough space, Citlali thinks to herself.

Trapped here in this modest stone prison Citlali has spent much of her time in contemplation. For hours a day now she is seated on her simple bed contemplating in the cross legged style of the Crystal Quetzalcoatl, touching her thoughts lightly so that she might examine their delicate workings. In this way she makes the most of what little her senses can gather.

Everyday, there are two major deliveries. One in the morning, when the food comes in for the day, and one in the evening, when the scraps and the nobles and all the other assorted trash gets moved out. The sound of the indigene horses and the bustle of people is unmistakable, even eight floors from the ground. From the southeast window she's noted that while there are guards posted during these deliveries it is clearly one of the more lax duties. Although she's too high up to be able to discern the guards' faces she can discern their movements, and in them she sees that the illusion of familiarity is well entrenched in them, making them easy targets to deceive.

To escape among that bustle however she and Lomys would have to be able to slip down there unnoticed, past the guards on her floor. Easy for Lomys, difficult for Citlali. These guards also change twice a day: once in the morning and once again after sunset. More and more however the actual switching of the guards is a ritual that has gotten lax with time, since Citlali hasn't given them reason to suspect her of plotting escape. As far as these thick headed indigene can tell, she actually _enjoys_ sitting in silence in her room for hours at a time. It would take a bit of deft movement and controlled steps, as well as a bif of luck, but an escape could be made during the changing of the guards.

What is really needed is a disguise, Citlali thinks to herself. She's spoken with Lomys about grabbing something that she could hide herself in, but what would that be? It'd have to be something with a hood. Among these sallow faced people Citlali sticks out like cacao against cotton; anyone who saw her would know that she's not meant to be out. But even a hood would be suspicious - they'd have to move quickly, at a time when all the Sunhouse is distracted by something and even in that case she couldn't risk taking her pack with her. It would give away her intention to travel far.

A knock comes at her door.

"Come in," says Citlali, still cross legged on her bed.

Lomys opens the door and slips in. From the look on his face Citlali can tell that he's been spending his time in contemplation. He's still thinking about his family, she thinks to herself. She still thinks about them all too. Akatzin and Cleyton are in the east helping the Hummingbird lift the sun in the morning, but it isn't clear what happened to the spirits of Layla or the twins. Citlali imagines that their spirits most likely went north and this thought hollows her out, and yet, she knows this is only a fraction of what Lomys must feel.

[[My heart returns to me,]] says Citlali playfully as he enters. He prefers affection in Atlajtoli and she would rather him forget his troubles.

Lomys smiles sheepishly.

[[And I return to my heart,]] he says.

He sits down on the bed with her. Although he's seen her sitting cross legged and hands centered many times now it still perplexes him.

"Supper should be good today," says Lomys, "the Lord and Lady were arguing, which means they'll probably skip supper and go straight to sweets."

"Fish?" asks Citlali, this being the only thing she finds the indigene capable of cooking well.

"Yep," says Lomys, "with a yellow sauce, looked good."

"There's something else too," says Lomys, "bad tidings from King's Landing."

"From the boy on the Iron Throne?" asks Citlali.

"Yes," says Lomys, "he's dead now."

Citlali pauses.

"The death of a child is always sad," she says, "how did he die?"

"He threw himself from a high tower," says Lomys.

Citlali nods.

[[ _May he traverse well the Gray Labyrinths of the North_ ,]] says Citlali, [[ _that his ink may be set free and his spirit find peace._ ]]

Lomys find himself still perplexed by Citlali's foreign religion, so he says simply, "May the Father judge him justly."

A moment of silence passes between the two.

"What happens now, that the king is dead?," says Citlali, "there must be a new king, no?"

"Yes," says Lomys, "although, the last two times it happened it was clear who would be king next. When King Robert died Joffrey was the clear successor, and the same with Joffrey and Tommen. But now, well now I don't know who is supposed to be king."

"The boy king had no sisters?" asks Citlali.

"He did, one, her name started with an M I think, but Queens can't sit on the Iron Throne," says Lomys, "the Protector of the Realm has always been a man."

"Why?" asks Citlali.

In truth Citlali already knows the answer to the question. In this Westeros women are seen as something akin to servants or captives, half-people who do not have the full rights of men. Of course they couldn't rule. In Ayamictlan the reforms of the first Tlon at the creation of the Triple Alliance did away with these attitudes so that they exist only in the most remote of backwaters, and as such, Citlali finds these indigene to be backwater in their thinking Still, she wants to hear Lomys' response, she wants to know if he will contemplate or if he will justify.

"Ah…" says Lomys, "I'm not sure. It's only men on the coins, which means it's only been men who've been king. I know in Dorne they don't have kings, they have Princes and Princesses, and either one can rule. That way seems more reasonable, at least that way there's less problems with deciding a new King or Queen."  
Citlali smiles at him. There is at least one indigene here I can trust, she thinks to herself.

"They're probably going to start ringing the bells soon to announce the death to the town," continues Lomys, "the Septon will probably say a few words about the king and the seven and that sort of thing. Oh and people will all be made to wear black. I think if you don't wear black when the king dies, it's treason."

"Everyone must wear black?" asks Citlali.

"Yes," says Lomys, "but don't worry. I have a black tunic, one of the Cuy's cousins let me have an old one, and I found a black cloak for you. It's a bit faded, it used to belong to Samara, you know, the scullery maid?, but it looks fine besides that."

"Do you have it now?" asks Citlali.

"Yeah, it's in my room, why?" asks Lomys.

Citlali kisses him.

[[Bring it to me,]] she says, [[we're leaving tonight.]]


	6. Part 6

[Pre-Columbian cultures were far from monolithic - there were many small nations and city states just as in Europe at the same time.]

* * *

THE FLOTILLA OF THE TRIPLE ALLIANCE SEIZES THE ARBOR

Although he is meant to be the highest counsel to the Two Masks, Sassamon is made to wait aboard one of the rear ships of the flotilla, the Singing Hawk, until the docks and the surrounding territory can be secured by the fighting men. Sassamon is the finest spearman in the Land of the Dawn but the Atlacal have no faith in the abilities of foreign warriors. To the Atlacal 'finest spearman' is a title worth little more than rudimentary training, and so they didn't think him worth bringing to the frontlines. Sassamon doesn't mind the insult. There is a streak of gray hair among his black now and Sassamon has lost the young man's lust for the rush of combat. Now he's begun to take on the qualities of old men: patience, calm, and compromise.

From a distance, this new land looks like many Sassamon has already seen. Across the water, past the scattered ships of the flotilla a gray rock dusted by the green of trees rises out of the sea. Just like any other island, any other coast. Noticeably, there are no tendrils of smoke rising up from where the flotilla ships have gone aground, which means the fighting, if there is any to be had, has not yet erupted into full fiery chaos.

Sassamon looks down at the water from the ship's railing and sees his reflection in the waves looking back at him. His three hair drops, glass, silver, and red eagle feather, hang down and partly obscure his face, still boyish despite his gray locks. His red and black tattoos are just barely visible underneath his buckskin shirt and reaching up to his left eye is the purple face paint that is the sign of the House of Orchid Lake. As the waves of the sea lap against the Singing Hawk's hull he watches as the image of himself becomes distorted, finds himself still vaguely unnerved by the briny murk of salt water, can't help wonder what lies beneath the depths, what leviathan's home they may have trespassed by sailing so far east across the Sunrise Sea.

Behind him the rigging flies upward as sailors free the sails. Sassamon looks out at the water around him at the other ships near the Singing Hawk in the flotilla and sees the flags give the all clear.

Surprising, thinks Sassamon to himself. He expected the fighting to take at least a few days. The fighting men only set out this morning and sunset is only a few hours off. Perhaps there was no fighting at all, thinks Sassamon to himself. As the wind fills the ships sails so too does it lift Sassamon's spirits. The Atlacal can't be pleased about this development - their Emerald Hummingbird prefers captives taken by rite of conquest - but at least this avoids any needless bloodshed. It might also make the natives more receptive to the sermons of the blood priests, but Sassamon doubts this. After all, who, when given the choice, would choose the dark and fatalistic cosmovision of the Atlacal - persuasive as it's pleasures may be - over the religion they know, that they've known all their life?

The ship groans into motion but this doesn't arouse any real interest from the passengers of the Singing Hawk. The other officials are still below deck, probably still thinking like Sassamon did that the fighting is still going on and that the ship is merely readjusting itself. The sailors, all Atlacal by the look of them, dart back and forth across the deck tending to their duties with the knowing rhythm of experience. The ship's captain, an older man with a milky white eye named Totonaco, man's the helm with his gaze steady forward, his beaded hair drops fluttering in the wind.

The only other official on deck besides Sassamon is Chami, the oracle-speaker from Holy Iwaniku. She sits at the ship's bow in her gold and white robes cross legged on the deck, her head bowed in prayer, with an intricately carved gold circlet affixed on her head to blind her. Sassamon doesn't remember hearing her come up to the deck. This is perhaps not so surprising as Chami is thin and small, only six and ten years, and Sassamon imagines her weight doesn't create even the slightest creak. What surprises him is that Chami's entourage, the four tall women in the black, white, and gold swaying robes of holy servants also came up on deck without making a sound. The four servants sit around the praying Chami in a square, each of them holding above their head a gold trinket in the shape of a stylized Iwaniku star: a large golden circle with a hundred thin extending rays. Sassamon doesn't know much about the ways of Holy Iwaniku, but he knows that this is meant to be some sort of purification ceremony, a way of cleansing the body and sharpening the mind. The Iwaniku did not give into the Atlacal cosmovision, despite their similarities, notes Sassamon.

As the ship approaches the shore Sassamon can see the wreckage of the initial landing. The indigene docks were no match for the yakruna wood hulls of the flotilla's forward ships. The small harbor stands splintered, crooked, with planks and logs floating amongst the ships, washing onto the sandy shore with the waves. The forward ships themselves ran aground to allow the fighters a quick disembarking and at least two of them are situated at the center of long docks, having split them in two as they sailed in from the sea. On shore the small indigene village built around the harbor is in ruins, emptied and ransacked. As the town expands inland fewer and fewer buildings are left standing, so that it's as if the town disappears into the wilderness. The only people to be seen in it is a small contingent of Atlacal fighters, there to greet the coming ships.

By now the other officials are up on deck of the Hawk and looking on at the sight. Yuma, the bald head of Hammers, stares mouth agape at all the damage, no doubt already calculating the amount of repairs that are going to be needed. Imari, head of Shields, is smoking so much leather leaf that Sassamon thought something nearby had caught fire. He watches as Imari loads more leather leaf into the ember of the pipe mid-drag.

Chami the oracle-speaker is still at the bow of the ship but now she's lifted her gold circlet, staring wide-eyed at the human wreckage of the battle. Sassamon follows her gaze to see a body along the beach. It's just as the rumors said, Sassamon thinks to himself, men of flesh as pale as limestone. The object of Chami's attention appears to be a young man, dressed in simple breeches, shirtless, a gash in his left chest where a heart should be. The corpse rests against a stone on the sandy shore, perhaps having laid against it in his last moments, looking back out at the sea. His hair is an impossibly golden color and his skin is so pale that it appears almost translucent. Sassamon watches as Chami's eye's dart from the young man's hair, to his face, and to his wound. Her holy servants have forgotten themselves as well, for they hold their golden suns haphazardly, their sky-blue painted faces in the rictus of shock.

Although Sassamon doesn't know well the religion of Holy Iwaniku, this is something everyone knows: it is they that fueled the fervor in the search for the far-lands, looking to confirm sailor's stories of pale skinned men. Their Sun Lord foretold the arrival of a sacred people with skin of alabaster and hair of spun gold, a people that would lead Holy Iwaniku to the doors of heaven. Such notions are misinterpretations in the eyes of Hinojovo and heresy in the eyes of the Atlacal. But the Tlon allows it to continue, in the spirit of respect. Heretics are no longer offered to the Golden Jaguar as it was in the old days, much to Sassamon's good fortune.

As the Blades from on shore guide the Singing Hawk onto the what's left of the docks and into the small seaside village, a crowd slowly gathers around Chami and her servants. According to Iwaniku the alabaster people were meant to be immortal servants of the Sun Lord. Muttering naturally begins: what does it mean to the oracle-speakers, the dead kings, the entire theocracy of Iwaniku, that these people can die? Even the fighting men lean in a little bit, curious to watch the young oracle-speaker lose her mind. Vultures, thinks Sassamon to himself, hungry to know what it looks like when someone's faith is shattered. The crowd allows Chami to be the first to disembark the ship and onto the ruins of the village. As she approaches the body of the young pale corpse her lips begin to tremble. Sassamon turns away from the sight.

He asks one of the Blades to lead him to Malinalli, the first of the Two Masks that he'll need to speak to to ensure Hinojovo receives its fair share of captives. Sassamon doesn't expect to receive very many captives - if any - as there were no Hinjovo risking themselves in the first wave of attack. Although Hinojovo is due it's fair share of the spoils by the treaty with the Tlon, it is ultimately for the Two Masks, heads of the expeditionary force, to divvy everything up. Malinalli will resist offering any captives to him, this Sassamon knows. She has just as much faith in her cosmovision as Sassamon has in the stories of the Dawnland and she will not let these natives, fresh hearts for conversion, fall to the teachings of some backwater foreigner. Oh she'll be polite in her rejection, but it will be a rejection nonetheless. Itzacoyotl, the other of the Two Masks, will not move without knowing Malinalli's mind on the matter, as she doesn't care to change it once it's been set, and will take his cue from her. In this type of situation it's better to work with people's momentum instead of against it, and so, rejection or no, it's best Sassamon finds where Malinalli stands on the subject first.

A group of four Blades lead Sassamon away from the camp being established at the seaside town further inland, to where Malinalli has gone to inspect the store house of the local tlatoani. As they leave Sassamon sees the cobble stoned main street of the town where the Blades have gathered up all the local indigene townsfolk. Shivering and dirty, their pale skin stands out from under all the grime of life. Their eyes dart here and there, wondering what the Atlacal have in store for them. Buzzing around the townsfolk are five blue cloaked ambassadors, each with a Book of Talking Leaves in their hands, trying to explain the choice that will be presented to each indigene by the blood priests.

On their way to the storehouse Sassamon asks about the fighting, and the soldiers tell him this:

[[There wasn't that much really,]] says the first one, [[it looked like they'd already been attacked. Some of their buildings were still being repaired.]]

[[One of the Needles told me that an indigene told her that there's war amongst them,]] says one of the other Blades, [[she said that he said that they'd just been attacked by some rival clan only a few weeks back. And that their fleet is gone somewhere else too, which is why they only had, what was it?]]

[[Six,]] says a third Blade, [[six galleys to defend themselves with. We were on shore and strolling into town as quickly and simply as if we were coming ashore for leave.]]

[[None of the indigene in that town even put up a fight,]] says the first fighter, [[the storehouse that we're coming to is the first place we ran into resistance, but even then, it was only a handful of them. The others looked broken before they even reached for their swords.]]

[[Strange weapons,]] says the fourth Blade, [[so much iron. How could you swing that at a battle all day? Wood and obsidian is much better. Besides - doesn't it rust?]]

[[It looks like they just make more of them when they rust,]] says the second fighter, [[every last one of them had an iron sword and iron armor, either in plates or in ringlets. So much metal - I've heard it can be poisonous to a man.]]

[[Iron isn't poisonous,]] says the third fighter.

[[It might be,]] says the second fighter, [[before the voyage I bought an iron ring, for strength you know, and it began to rot and turn my finger green! Surely it can't be good to have rot growing on one's hands.]]

[[Iron doesn't turn green,]] says Sassamon, [[copper turns green. It's cheaper than iron too.]]

The three other Blades chuckle.

Through a sparse wood of curious trees and pleasantly green grasses Sassamon and his detail arrive at the store house. A collection of structures of a pale stone, perhaps some sort of plaster, with burgundy tiled roofs stand at the center of great fields of some vine the indigene are in the process of cultivating. Rows upon rows of wooden trellises are host to a plant of dark green leaves. As the Blades lead Sassamon through the fields and toward the structures he can see that the fruit of the vine is a sort of purple berry. It isn't until he reaches out to touch one that he realizes they are not a single berry but instead a bunch of little berries growing together.

[[They're safe to eat,]] says the first fighter.

Sassamon plucks one off the vine throws it into his mouth. The berry is juicy and sweet, possessed of a crisp light flavor much unlike that of any other berry he's ever had, now that he thinks about it. What curiosities this world has to give, Sassamon thinks to himself.

As they approach the indigene storehouse the Blades salute their fellows and inform them that the counselor from the Land of the Dawn has come to speak with Malinalli. Sassamon is asked to wait as there is, apparently, some kind of issue inside. After a little while Sassamon can hear muffled shouting that sounds distinctly like:

[[I SAID SEND! HIM! IN!]]

[[Hrmmm,]] says Sassamon.

The Blades hand off Sassamon to the storehouse guards and return to the town. Once inside the storehouse Sassamon can see the inside is clean but bare. More than likely anything valuable was taken in the attack by the rival indigene clan or by people trying to escape the incoming flotilla. Several of the first rooms they pass by are completely empty, just pale plaster walls and a window out to the world. Farther inside there are a few wooden racks strewn about the rooms, they're mostly empty but every here and there there is a dark bottle among the racks, narrow necked and plugged by something that looks like wood. One of these bottles lies broken in a corner. At first Sassamon supposes that it was broken during the fighting, perhaps used as a makeshift dagger, as there is a pool of crimson liquid near it. But the smell of the liquid - sharp, fermented, and a little sweet - lets him know that this isn't blood.

As the Blade guards show Sassamon through the building he can hear Malinalli bickering with someone from someone within. Quite unlike her - Malinalli prefers to speak sternly and only once.

[[Yes, yes,]] says Malinalli from the other room, [[yes alright yes, I heard you soldier. You are dishmished. Go go go.]]

Sassamon is lead to a blue door with little engravings of the purple berries as borders. It swings open and a Blade exits the room, closing the door behind him. He notices Sassamon and his entourage.

[[The Mask is free to see you,]] says the man as he leaves.

Beyond the blue door is a room that Sassamon imagines was once used to tabulate all of the various goods stored here. On the walls there are the ripped remnants of maps and shelves, and at the center of it all there is brutish indigene piece of furniture, a large box-like desk, where Malinalli is seated looking perplexed. Although not an old woman Malinalli has switched her gold piercings for silver ones in the style of one, an incongruence that makes her appear older than her twenty nine years. Her Mask, a stylized Atlacal face made of jade and jasper, hangs crookedly about her neck to reveal the stern face of a believer and the shoulder length hair of female Mask-bearers. To her right, on the desk, there is one of the dark narrow necked bottles, it's plug removed by the use of a small metal drill. From the way the light shines through it Sassamon can tell that it's empty and by the purple coloration on Malinalli's lips he can guess where it went.

[[Shash-,]] begins Malinalli, [[eh, Sashhh...Shassamon. My learned counsh-counselor from the east. Well, from here, I guess you're my learned counshelor from the west.]] Malinalli gives a wry grin.

[[Mask of the Flotilla, are you alright?]] asks Sassamon.

[[No,]] says Malinalli flatly.

[[...no?]] asks Sassamon.

[[I have done something grave Shassamon...very grave,]] says Malinalli, [[these fair weather contemplatives don't undershtand the gravity of the situashun, but I know you do, my learned counshelor from the west. I mean east. You know what I mean.]]

[[Malinalli, I came to talk about the captives but if you feel ill-]]

[[No no no,]] says Malinalli, [[not ill. I have Imbibed.]]

[[Ah,]] says Sassamon, [[yes I've heard about this, down in Atlacal when the nectar of the-]]

[[IMBIBED!]] shouts Malinalli, having not noticed Sassamon speaking, [[And I knew it too. I knew it Shassamon! I have fasted for pulque before! I knew this taste! I lied to myself, I said that it wasn't the same, just a coincidence, but I knew! I have supped upon the blood of She of the Bladed Leaf without her permission! She will know that I took what did not belong to me!]]

Malinalli's lower lip quivers for just a moment before she gains a hold of herself, letting her head rest in her palm.

[[Malinalli,]] says Sassamon, [[we are in a strange land full of strange things, I am sure there is room for understanding.]]

[[I have broken the covenant between the Lady of the Leavesh and mankind,]] slurs Malinalli, [[I have brought ruin to the expedition. And to myshelf! I did not purify myself and have been made beashtial...now the drink will curdle and poison my thoughts for the rest of my days...oh, this world is shlick mud Shassamon, a thin mountain path, beshet on either side by twin abysh...]]

Sassamon, unsure how to respond, says nothing.

[[And worshe I am selfish,]] says Malinalli after noticing his silence. She clears her throat and sits herself upright. She takes a deep breathe and then begins, [[what brings you to me, counsh-counselor?]]

[[I wished to speak about the captives due to Hinojovo,]] says Sassamon.

[[The captives, yes,]] says Malinalli, [[you said that and I washn't paying attention, yes, of courshe, Hinojovo will have its due of captives of courshe.]]

Hinojovo will have it's due of captives? thinks Sassamon to himself.

[[Mask of the flotilla,]] says Sassamon, [[that is…]]

[[It's nothing,]] says Malinalli, [[there will be more captivesh.]]

[[You are most kind Malinalli,]] says Sassamon. He'll have to grab one of these bottles before speaking to Itzacoyotol, [[I am heartened to know that the bonds of the Alliance hold strong.]]

Malinalli smiles a dazed, smug, smile.

[[Of courshe,]] says Malinalli, [[it's important that we shtand together here in this...confusing...place.]]

Her dark obsidian eyes give a flash of clumsy predation.

[[But don't say the Ivory Mashk has never favored you,]] says Malinalli, [[it may need to call upon you for gifts in return. Now go. And tell the men to start shupper on your way out. And tell them no maize meal. I want meat.]]

Another entourage now escorts Sassamon further into the island where Itzacoyotl, the second Mask, is finishing the capture of an indigene fortress. On his way out of the storehouse Sassamon takes with him three bottles of the indigene concoction called '"wine." As they walk through green fields of trellises and tall hedge bushes Sassamon realizes wine comes in two varieties. All three of the bottles are made dark green glass but two of them appear to contain purple wine within them while the third contains a clear wine, or perhaps a green wine, it's difficult to tell through the thick bottle walls. Unfortunately Sassamon forgot to grab one of the metal drills that Malinalli used to open her bottle, and he's not quite sure how to open one his bottles without breaking them. For the moment he resigns himself to the hope that he'll be able to find another once they reach Itzacoyotl.

Sunset approaches and the western horizon takes on the warm oranges and pinks of early dusk. This castle must be far away, Sassamon thinks to himself, we've been walking for two hours now and I don't hear any sounds of battle. It's only a few moments from that thought that he and his entourage come to the summit of a small hill as the fortress comes into view just below.

Sassamon sees a sprawling complex of beige colored structures dotted by several interior courtyards, open to the sky, where patches of green trees and trellises peek out among the wine colored tiles of the roofs. Modest outer walls protect the inner structures within and a few parapets - now pincushions for dozens of man-sized sheen-obsidian arrows - rise up to offer views of the surrounding green hills. Atlacal ballistae, massive bows of treated yacuna wood each requiring four men to work, lie on the ground, their crews resting alongside them, slowly munching away at their rations. A few are so relaxed they're napping. The only evidence of violence, besides the ballista arrows sticking out of the stone walls, are the patches of deep crimson against the earth where blood used to be. Whatever men were slain have already been moved, or perhaps even buried, if the fighting was finished early enough.

As Sassamon's escort walks him through this crowd and toward the front gates he notes the fighting men are bored. Many of them stare idly at the fortress they've conquered, a few are starting fires to begin something to cook and a ways off to one side, away from the ballistae, Sassamon sees eight men playing a game of ulmetl. One of the players makes an illegal strike, using his shin instead of his knee or hip, and the opposing side erupts into protest, prompting protests from the other side. When all the world is conquered, thinks Sassamon to himself, at least they'll still have that to fight over.

Inside the walls the evidence of violence is more clear. A courtyard is littered with heaps of indigene corpses, their method of death in line with the armor they wear: leather or cloth results in men being cut clean in two by obsidian-bladed macuahuitl, while steel - even their curious ringlet design - results in men's bodies being dented into broken shapes by sheen-obsidian maces. Blood priests must already be inside somewhere tending to the wounded, as among the Atlacal men clearing the inner courtyard Sassamon notes the dark colored scars of their healing magics.

At last Sassamon is lead to the doorway of a throne room. One of the two double doors lies on the ground near the entrance, while the other is opened inward. Inside Sassamon sees Itzacoyotl, wearing his Mask of jasper and jade, along with a dozen fighting men, watching over a row of colorfully dressed indigene all down on their knees. Two other Atlacal, blue cloaked ambassadors wielding the Book of Talking Leaves, busy themselves trying to communicate with one of the indigene, an older man dressed in gray robes and a necklace of oversized chains of different metals. From the curiousness of his dress and the dress of the others - layers of cloth and leather, colorful sashes, the women dressed in big blooming dresses - Sassamon imagines that these indigene must either be the rich or the holy. Common folk don't have the means to acquire such fine things.

I wonder what we look like to them, Sassamon thinks to himself.

[[Sassamon,]] says Itzacoyotl without looking at him, [[I'm glad you could be here to join us.]] He paces slowly back and forth across the row of kneeling indigene, the white, brown, and emerald feathers of his warrior's helm swaying in movement with his steps, his wooden sandals clacking loudly on the stone floor.

[[The ambassadors tell me they've managed to learn enough of this barbarian barking that they can make these indigene the Offer,]] says Itzacoyotl, [[as high counselor I thought it would be important you see how their leaders react. It'll say a lot about how long it'll take to break them.]]

[[Why must they be broken,]] says Sassamon, [[why can't they simply be swayed?]]

The Mask turns to look at him.

[[But let's not start with disagreements.,]] says Sassamon, [[Mask of the Flotilla, I've brought some of the indigene concoction they brew here, the finest of it I'm told, for us to share.]]

[[Ah yes, the indigene "wine." No thank you Sassamon,]] says Itzacoyotl, [[I knew immediately it was some descendant of the blood She of the Bladed Leaves from the smell alone. Terrible odor - both sharp and rotted at once someow. Malinalli didn't believe this to be the case. Or wouldn't believe. Heh. Perhaps she's not such a pious one after all eh?]]

Itzacoyotl chuckles. The indigene's heads swivel back and forth from Itzacoyotl to Sassamon unsure of whether this chuckling is a good or bad omen.

[[But please, don't abstain on my account,]] says Itzacoyotl.

[[Do you or your men have one of those iron screws?]] asks Sassamon, [[afraid I can't open them without one of those little contraptions.]]

The assembled look around at one another. No one has bothered to keep one.

[[Perhaps another time then,]] says Sassamon. He gives a smile, hoping to mask relief with cordiality.

[[Perhaps. For now, let's begin,]] says Itzacoyotl, [[the fortress has been ours for some time now. We have all the indigene nobility assembled here, once they give themselves to service their followers will have no leader to turn to. So let's make this capture as complete as possible!]]

This last he shouts at the two ambassadors. In response they gather with them the old indigene man in gray and approach the Mask of the Flotilla.

[[Mask of the Flotilla,]] says one of the ambassadors, [[this one would like to pledge himself to you personally.]]

[[Hah! Now that's what I like to hear!]] says Itzacoyotl. He opens his arms wide in triumph, [[genuine devotion! Eagerness to serve the Tlon! Come then, let's hear it.]]

The two ambassadors speak briefly with the old man who then orients himself before Itzacoyotl and falls to one knee, his head bowed. Itzacoyotl chuckles at the display.

[[Rise indigene,]] says Itzacoyotl, [[what is your name?]]

The ambassadors translate this for the old man.

"I am Iain," says the old man, "Maester of Vintner's Bastion of the Arbor, loyal to...to whatever lord holds it."

[[Not the most pleasant sounding tongue is it?]] says Itzacoyotl, [[what did he say?]]

[[His name is "Iain",]] says one of the ambassadors, [[he belongs to a special order that the indigene call "Maesters". His kind are pledged to places instead of people, stationed to castles and fortresses. When the old lord held this fortress he was pledged to him, and now that we hold his fortress, he is pledged to us.]]

What a curious system, thinks Sassamon to himself. Itzacoyotl likely ponders the same thing for a moment later he asks:

[[What if want to raze the fortress? Will this "Maester" preside over the rubble?]]

The ambassadors look at one another and then at their books.

[[Nevermind. Tell him that I accept his pledge of loyalty and to come and stand at the side of his new tlatoani.]]

The ambassadors do so and with gray haired head bowed old Maester Iain goes to stand dutifully beside Itzacoyotl. Behind his jasper and jade mask Itzacoyotl gives an open laugh.

[[So well behaved! I think we'll do quite well here,]] says Itzacoyotl, [[now then. Needles, you know the words to ask right? Let's start over here with this old woman in blue and purple-]]

The indigene shudder as he points.

[[Mask of the Flotilla,]] says Sassamon, [[before we begin, there is the matter of the captives due to Hinojovo-]]

[[Captives due?]] asks Itzacoyotl, [[what captives?]]

[[As equal member of the Triple Alliance, Hinojovo is due a third of the spoils of this expedition,]] says Sassamon.

[[Ah, yes,]] says Itzacoyotl, [[Yes. I do recall that. But you know I don't recall the agreement stipulating that the spoils be delivered immediately on landing on foreign soil, do you?]]

Sassamon is taken aback but Itzacoyotl gives another loud laugh from underneath his jasper and jade.

[[Only a joke my good counselor,]] says Itzacoyotl. As his laugh dies down, he continues, [[I understand the Dawn lands are anxious to find new converts. You won't find me giving preferential treatment to the cosmovision - there's room in this world for a great many stories. Although…]]

[[Although?]] asks Sassamon.

[[Well, there are questions of loyalty to consider,]] says Itzacoyotl, [[the Dawnlands do not make the Offer to their captives. This makes people nervous, as I'm sure you understand.]]

[[The Dawnlands believe that all men can see wisdom,]] says Sassamon, [[there is no need for force, only to give them the lay of the land and the stories of world.]]

[[And if they wanted more? What if they wanted murder?]] asks Itzacoyotl, [[what good are stories then?]]

[[Well-]]

[[You see Sassamon, the Offer is more than an observance of the Emerald Hummingbird's edict,]] says Itzacoyotl, cutting him off, [[it allows us to separate, quite simply, the captives who will work and the captives who will conspire. Without the Offer you have the two mixed together. Tell me Sassamon, would you eat a handful of berries knowing that one of them was deadly poison?]]

[[Are you denying Hinojovo it's share of captives?]] asks Sassamon.

[[Not at all,]] says Itzacoyotl, [[you can have your captives and tell them all the stories you like, without making the Offer. But I propose they be kept within or near the fortress, working the fields under the watchful eyes of the fighting men, to ensure that if they are conspiratorially inclined they won't be able to make anything of their inclinations.]]

He wants the labor, thinks Sassamon to himself. Sassamon stares hard into the eye slits of the jasper and jade but Itzacoyotl's eyes cannot be seen. He knew Itzacyotl to be a pragmatic man but he didn't think he'd be quite so cut throat once the time came for it. So many give themselves to the promises of the Golden Jaguar, thinks Sassamon to himself.

[[Must all of them be kept this way?]] asks Sassamon, [[the Hinojovo delegation could watch over a number over them. Why with just a handful of Blades-]]

[[The fighting men cannot be spared,]] says Itzacoyotl, [[not when we still know so little about this place.]] His voice is stern and his body and mask are unmoving.

[[But I suppose the Hinojovo could watch over a dozen of the captives or so without aid,]] says Itzacoyotl.

[[We're agreed then,]] says Sassamon.

[[We are,]] says Itzacoyotl, [[but I wouldn't let your hopes fly too high.]]

[[Why is that?]] asks Sassamon.

[[I doubt Malinalli will let you have them,]] says Itzacoyotl.

[[Let me worry about her,]] says Sassamon.

[[I will,]] says Itzacoyotl, [[oh and I'll be keeping this one by the way.]] He motions to Maester Iain. [[These indigene will see that the Ivory Mask rewards loyalty. Now then. How many do we have assembled here? Fifteen without...Een? Iain? Yes, fifteen. Pick your five Sassamon.]]

[[Right this moment?]] asks Sassamon.

[[Of course,]] says Itzacoyotl, [[we agreed you would receive your third and the agreement begins this moment. Pick five for your stories and take them away so that we can start to separate the seeds from the husks.]]

Sassamon looks at the crowd of indigene gathered here intently now. Five souls are what he can save from the brutal Offer put forth by the Atlacal. How does one go about making such a decision? Amongst them he can see two young women, twins, and immediately he considers picking those off the bat. But one of the young women, pale skinned and with light brown hair, eyes in a green like women of the pleasant forests and jungles of Atlacal, kneels with her head held high, unafraid. Perhaps she does not need saving. The other young people gathered try to match their sisters but Sassamon senses in them the hesitancy that will lead them to choose service instead of sacrifice. The last young woman is quietly weeping. She at least will have to come.

Who else? The other eleven, all older indigene, are in all manner of states. One of them, the older woman in blue and purple Itzacoyotl pointed out before, kneels like the young girl, with her head held high. Two others, perhaps the weeping girls parents, kneel close to one another, both their lips trembling as they hold themselves back from an abyss of fear. A number of those captured are hardened fighting men, easy to discern from their steely glares and their scarred faces.

[[The crying girl,]] says Sassamon, [[and her two parents behind her. These two young men here.]]

[[You know I wanted both of the twins for Atlacal,]] says Itzacoyotl, [[they're good luck. But a the agreement must be honored.]]

Itzacoyotl motions to the ambassadors, who explain to the five the goings on as best they can. They direct them to Sassamon and his guard detail. The crying girl and her parents embrace each other, happy just to be together. The two young men, chosen at random, look around themselves in fear.

[[Good, now then, we can begin in earnest,]] says Itzacoyotl, [[will you stay and watch counselor?]]

Sassamon feels that he shouldn't let his new wards watch in case one of their compatriots chooses death, but perhaps that would be all the better to push them away from the cosmovision.

[[Yes,]] says Sassamon, [[you're right Mask of the Flotilla, it's important to see how the indigene will react.]]

Itzacoyotl nods and points to the older woman in blue and purple. He summons a blue cloaked translator to his side and tells him to translate for the woman.

[[Who do you serve?]] asks Itzacoyotl.

The woman stares hard as she responds.

"I serve House Redwyne of the Arbor," says the woman.

[[Your house is ours now,]] says Itzacoyotl.

The woman says nothing.

[[Now you have an Offer before you, and you must choose,]] says Itzacoyotl, [[a life of service to the Tlon, or a death in sacrifice to the Sun?]]

"What will happen to my family if I choose sacrifice?" asks the woman.

Itzacoyotl chuckles.

[[They'll get their turn to choose for themselves,]] he says, [[but now is your time for choosing. Service or sacrifice?]]

The woman looks around her and the others look to her. In her gaze Sassamon sees the stoic stillness of someone accustomed to the burden of leadership. Is she the tlatoani of this place? wonders Sassamon to himself.

The woman looks down at the floor.

"Service," she says.

Itzacoyotl laughs.


	7. Part 7

[It would take a decade for the lands found by Columbus to be considered a new undiscovered continent and not just some obscure part of Asia.]

* * *

A CONVERSATION OVERHEARD BY SAMWELL TARLY

The Citadel is by its nature a quiet place. The commonest sounds one hears when one wanders through the many shelves, home to the innumerable chained books of the Maesters, are the soft creakings of ancient woods settling into another few centuries, the thuds of another's footsteps, or the low susurrations of faraway whispers. Samwell has found that of these sounds only the last offers the promise of building into something more tangible, just as it does now, here among the books of dragonglass and Others.

"Don't be a fool!" says a voice. From it's hoary tenor Samwell recognizes it as Archmaester Benedict's. "Of course Vaellyn would say that, he'll say anything to push that 'Big World' theory of his."

"And what about the ravens from Branston-" begins another voice.

"Barmy Branston?" asks Benedict, "are you seriously suggesting we should rely on the word of _Barmy Branston?"_

"Don't tell _me_ what _I_ am suggesting!" shouts the second voice, then, more quietly, "Listen to me. _Listen_ to what I am saying." The voice dips into a Dornish accent for a moment and Samwell recognizes it as belonging to Archmaester Castos.

"Vintner's Bastion has fallen. Maester Iain has sworn himself to a foreign lord," says Archmaeaster Castos, "that is something we _know_. In combination with Branston's claims, with the reports from Cidrio of marauding barbarians, the stories of strange ships from sailors-"

"Sailor's stories, certainly reliable," says Archmaester Benedict mockingly.

"You aren't listening!" says Archmaester Castos, "The Arbor has fallen to some barbarian lord from the sea. Leading folk of a kind Iain wrote he's never seen before, claiming to hail from some foreign land he's never heard of. Vaellyn showed me the message himself. Do you understand the weight of this?"

"A ploy," says Archmaester Benedict dismissively, "Euron Greyjoy has raised his sails. Perhaps the Redwynes are trying to sow confusion-"

"Among us? Why?" asks Archmaester Castos.

"-or perhaps the Greyjoys have already taken the Arbor. Perhaps they don't wish to give away their movements and have twisted Maester Iains arm until he would write us what they told him to write us. The Greyjoys have their ways. They might not be the Boltons, but they have their ways."

"And the ravens from Cidrio?" asks Castos, "Branston's claims? The sailors?"

"Cidrio saw Summer Islanders," says Benedict, "Branston is barmy, and sailors are sailors."

There is a pause during which Samwell imagines one Archmaester gives another a hard look, because what follows is:

"Oh please, you can't honestly tell me you believe Vaellyn. Castos, honestly-"

"Our maps of Yi Ti aren't reliable," says Archmaester Castos, " _No one_ has reliable maps of Sothoryos. It's not that difficult to believe that we could have missed-"

"-an entire continent?!" shouts Benedict. Then, after looking around and almost but not quite noticing Samwell, "An _entire_ continent, full of people, that we've not even the smallest piece of proof for? That no one's ever heard of?"

"There have been stories," says Archmaester Castos, "Lord Farwynd claims to have sailed to the other side of the Sunset Sea."

"Oh Seven save us," says Archmaester Benedict, "we're relying on the Farwynds now too?"

"They are the only ones to have seen such things," says Archmaester Castos, "their words must be considered in a new light."

There's another pause.

"What's your interest in all of this Castos?" asks Archmaester Benedict, "Vaellyn has his Big World theory. Marwyn is obsessed with acquiring some of their dragonglass."

Dragonglass? Thinks Samwell to himself.

"So tell me Castos," continues Benedict, "how many languages do you have under your belt now? Twelve? Thirteen?"

"Fourteen," answers Castos stiffly.

"And what is the record held by Archmaester...what was his name?"

"Maughlin," says Castos, "and his record is sixteen, although he had the aid of a few dead languages still being spoken in his time."

"Well there it is," says Archmaester Benedict, "you _want_ this to be true."

"That I might benefit from such a discovery does not somehow disqualify me from judging it a discovery in the first place," says Archmaester Castos.

The two Archmaesters bicker for a little while longer about motives. Samwell wishes they would go back to talking about the dragonglass but by now Benedict and Castos are really going at it about impartiality and it doesn't seem like they're likely to return to the topic. In a bid to break them out of their argument Samwell walks to the far end of the shelf he's behind and coughs loudly while walking away, as if here were some acolyte passing just near enough to be heard.

Sensing they might be overheard the two Archmaester quiet down again. Samwell tries to sneak back to hear better but they're on the move now and he makes for the next row of shelves to avoid being seen.

"Why did you even bring this to me?" whispers Archmaester Benedict.

The two old Archmaesters walk slowly with plodding steps, so it's easy for Samwell to hide his own footsteps.

"We'll need your vote," says Archmaester Castos, "We're going to pull the gold proposed for Gallard's expedition east and send an envoy to the Arbor to verify Maester Iain's claim-"

"Pull the gold-" shouts Archmaester Benedict, then, more quietly, "pull the gold? And put it on this guess?"

"Vaellyn has been speaking with the Seneschal," says Archmaester Castos, "he's been making a case that these barbarians will have excess dragonglass to trade, which will prove useful for Marwyn's studies, that they will have maps with them that will prove his own theories about the world, and that the make of their ships will prove useful information that the Citadel can trade to the shipyards of Oldtown. That's a lot better of a return than a few maps of Yi Ti in Gallard's shaky hand. And it's much closer than Yi Ti - Seven hells it might even offer another path _to_ Yi Ti."

"Sounds like a good case," says Benedict, "make it without me."

"The others won't listen," says Castos, "you know how they bow to seniority. You know it better than anyone. Even the Seneschal needs the cover of support."

"Well what's in it for me?" asks Benedict.

"Well there it is," says Castos mockingly.

"It's not nothing," says Benedict, "you know those senile old fools will use my vote against Gallard against _me_ , especially now that I'm so close to getting a say on the coin purse. So what's in it for me?"

"I'll get you some of the dragonglass," says Castos, "I won't need any of it."

"Neither will I," says Benedict.

"But you can trade it," says Castos, "the plants you're after aren't so rare they can't be bought from some trader in one of the Free Cities."

"They're expensive when we get them from traders," says Benedict, "especially since traders waste our time and money with mislabeled specimens."

"Dragonglass is also expensive you know," says Castos.

A pause.

"How much dragonglass does Vaellyn think these barbarians have?" asks Benedict

"If you'd have listened to me," says Castos, "you'd know that these barbarians use dragonglass weapons _exclusively_. Wooden swords almost as tall as a man lined with black obsidian. Even if we only managed to trade for a few it'd be a sizeable addition to our stores."

"Exclusively?" says Archmaester Benedict.

"Curious, isn't it?" asks Archmaester Castos.

Archmaester Benedict gives a hrmm. Then he chuckles to himself.

"You really believe this don't you?" he asks.

"I believe it could be true," says Archmaester Castos, "and that it's much more reasonable than an expedition to Yi Ti."

"You know when I give it a moment it is rather pleasing an idea," says Benedict, "having a little extra gold would go a long way in persuading the merchants to bring back something good."

The Archmaesters head up a flight of wooden stairs. Samwell doesn't follow them, afraid that if the creaky stairs didn't give him away the fact that he'd be clearly visible behind them would. Instead Samwell wanders back to his spot before where he was hunting for more information on the children of the forest and the Others, now unable to concentrate. His mind keeps imagining what an entire army of warriors wielding dragonglass weaponry might look like.


	8. Part 8

[Historical Note: Aztec 'gods' were misinterpreted by the first Europeans. Nahua beliefs centered around a divine energy called teotl, a concept more similar to Polynesian mana than Western-style gods.]

* * *

A SNAKE BECOMES A SPHINX

As one moves westward the orange red stones and soft brown sands of Dorne darken and soften until the earth takes a deep fertile color that gives rise to green grassy plains. The dry dusty air becomes cool and sweet as it's perfumed by flowers, comes alive with the sounds of songbirds singing in the woods. The Red Mountains are to the northwest, the Summer Sea is to the south, castle Starfall is far behind, and Sarella and Yolotl find themselves now in the Reach.

The first day of the journey went by quickly then very slowly. Jolted with fear and vigor after making off from Starfall when no one was looking Sarella pushed the horses she stole hard until the beasts almost fainted from exhaustion. Yolotl made no objections. The entire time he was pressed forward, gripping what he could with his bound hands. Once they put some distance between themselves and Starfall Sarella lead them away from the main road, hoping to evade any outriders, and allowing the horses a more relaxed pace. In this way they traveled until dusk, when they camped in a small grove for the night.

Sarella wakes just before the dawn, a habit inculcated in her by the Citadel. The best acolytes know that studying late at night isn't enough, that it's best if one also reviews in the morning to make sure everything acquired the night before has stuck. But whereas before her mornings were cozy, when she could greet her books with a cup of warm cider, now her mornings are cold, without books, and greeted only by the dew of the grass. Nonetheless Sarella finds a use for this time, for now her thoughts are thick with uncertainty, and she needs to assuage them if she's to carry on with the day.

How will she contact her uncle Prince Doran? From the first big inn to have a ravenry or the ravenry at the Citadel, whichever comes first, she tells herself. Will my old clothes still be hidden in the false wall of the Lavender Lady? They better be, thinks Sarella, or I'll get my silver stags back somehow and buy some more. What happened to Obara? She could be alive or she could be dead, but there's nothing to be done about it now, so don't think about it. Are the Dayne's after her? Will they try to silence her before she can reach Doran? Will the Citadel believe her story? Will she even make it that far? Snatching up Yolotl from the cells under Starfall meant that Sarella only had time to grab a cloak and whatever was loaded in the packs of the two horses she made off with. Mostly rations, for which Yolotl especially was thankful for, but no blanket or cloak or coat, not even flint to help start a fire. Just the dress she had on, a pretty thing in green, the kind that doesn't keep warm and that Sarella has never found comfortable.

Yolotl awakens a little after the dawn. He doesn't speak but he tosses and turns on the ground, searching for more sleep. Although still bone thin from his time in the dungeons Sarella makes sure to bind his hands whenever they stop for sleep. Through their travelling she's noticed that he also likely has some broken ribs, as he holds his right side tenderly. Yolotl doesn't make mention of any of this pain however - when Sarella bids him rise he rises, sometimes allowing himself the occasional momentary grimace when his stoicism falters. Although she feels badly that he must suffer Sarella has no medicine to administer and finds herself still a little distrustful of this foreigner, this man from across the Sunset Sea.

Sarella helps him on to his horse since his hands are tied, then after making sure his horse is firmly tied to her own, they start westward once more, stopping only for food or sleep. The entirety of the second day goes by without a word being spoken, Yolotl unwilling to speak and Sarella unsure of what to say. Same with the third day. By the fourth day Sarella tires of the sounds of the wind, the birds, low thuds of the horses' hooves, the distant sounds of water - even a scholar, who spends hours sitting in one place, needs something to add variety to the days. This is especially true when one's thoughts tend slip to those heavy places where worries collect or to the edges of the mind where the low gnawing of hunger lives, as Sarella's does during these silent days. This auditory ravenousness swells in Sarella so that on the afternoon of the fourth day she says to Yolotl:

"Speak."

Yolotl, seated on the horse behind her with his head bowed, looks up at her blandly.

"Speak!" cries Sarella.

Birds flutter up a few branches in a nearby tree.

[[What would you have me say?]] asks Yolotl in his sing-song language.

"Finally!" says Sarella, [[you speak!]]

Confused, irritated, Yolotl says nothing.

[[Speak more!]] says Sarella.

[[You won't understand me,]] says Yolotl, "You no know my words."

[[Not important,]] says Sarella, [[you speak. I listen. I learn.]]

Yolotl looks back at the road before them. His thin frame jostles uncomfortably in his saddle.

[[What do you want to hear?]] asks Yolotl.

Sarella sighs.

[[Everything,]] she says.

[[Everything?]]

[[Yes, everything,]] says Sarella, [[Start from start, go to end.]]

And so Yolotl, finding himself bound in capture by the primal rites of the Golden Jaguar, denied his sacrifice and his will, does as he's told.

[[Teotl dances eternal. As a dancer's clothes ripple and break from her movement, so too does the cosmos ripple and break from teotl's eternal dance. From this motion comes all the twin colors the human eye can behold: fire and ice, light and dark, life and death. When the world was young all these roiled together in a great storm, and among this chaos the Four Siblings were born:

Golden Jaguar, the Night Drinker,

Emerald Hummingbird, the Harbinger of War,

Crystal-Feathered Serpent, the Ethereal Prism,

and Obsidian Butterfly, the Smoking Mirror.

Together they gathered to observe teotl's performance and witness the creation of the First Sun, so grossly incandescent that it floated aloft in the sky without aid. Such was its beauty that as the first sacrifice the Four Siblings created mankind from maize, unique among the beasts of the world, to count the days and commemorate the eternal dance of teotl.

The First Sun was a time when the Four Siblings walked the world in their titanic living forms, moving astride mountains, flying alongside the moon. The other Aspects, beasts of gargantuan form, teotl as viewed through the prism of the human eye, lived alongside humanity in a blissful peace that lasted eons. The game was plentiful, the honey was sweet, and everywhere there was flowers and song.

But all things come to an end, and the Sun is no different. With time its incandescence fades, and so too the bounty of life.]]

He's right, thinks Sarella, I can't understand half of what he's saying. But the sing-song of his tongue is pleasant to hear and from listening Sarella grabs hold of a few familiar words, solidifying her own vocabulary.

[[In the twilight of the First Sun, as darkness befell the world, the Four Siblings carved out their hearts and offered them as kindling to restore the Sun. But the Sun demands sacrifices of value, and for beings such as the Four Siblings to offer a heart is to offer a small-finger, a nothing that can be done without. Although their rekindling caused the Sun to shine bright once more, the Siblings were now bound to it. From thenceforth the Sun would not float aloft alone, one of the Siblings would have to hold it up for the world to bathe in its warmth. However, far from a burden this duty was much coveted. To bear the Sun is to bear the world entire.

Desired by all and surrendered by none the Sun could not be held aloft by one of the Siblings without being open to attack by another. Since no agreement could be made the Sun fell to darkness while the world was enveloped in the war of the Four Siblings, an era known as the First Dark.]]

Here Yolotl stops. Sarella notices that his lips are dry and his lips are cracked so that it costs him precious moisture to speak. As sunset is already setting in, they stop to camp. When Sarella finds a stream nearby she makes sure to fill their canteens to the brim.

The next day it comes into sight. At the head of an intersection of three roads stands the Lavender Lady, a grand old inn made up of three main sections - a large central gable, a long hall of guest rooms, and a long stable - each built in a different era, with roofs in the light purple of the floral namesake. Behind the Lady the grasslands give rise to a forest, thick with underbrush and darkened by tree canopy, giving the the sense that this inn is the last bastion of beer and beds before the wilderness. Which is not untrue - out here humanity is sparse and prone to keeping to itself. Even now at the Lady Sarella can spot the shapes of distant people milling about outside, each little group keeping its distance from the others.

But they'll have questions about a man bound in ropes lead by an islander girl, thinks Sarella to herself. Something like that stands out in the Andal dominated Reach. Once eyebrows are raised all it would take from Yolotl is a look of concern, perhaps a whimper, and people's minds would alight with suspicion. They'll say to themselves: men shouldn't be bound unless they're a danger, and what could danger could this foreigner be, so thin and so foolish, unable even to speak the Common Tongue? Who knows what sorts of explanations the smallfolk might jump to, prone as they are to stories of witches and warlocks. And would they believe her assurances? Would they believe her to be the daughter of a Dornish Prince? She of the tattered dress and the emaciated companion?

Sarella brings her horse to a stop and brings the one bearing Yolotl up alongside her. From the Lavender Lady they could appear only as distant figures, shadows among the green of distant nature. Find herself more capable of trust now that she must rely on it Sarella has an idea that would serve here. Doing her best to reproduce the sing-song of his tongue, Sarella asks:

[[You want bed?]]

[[Hrmmm?,]] says Yolotl.

[[You can want bed,]] says Sarella, [[there, beds.]]

Yolotl lifts up his head for the first time in hours and peers out at the Lavender Lady. Then he looks back at Sarella.

[[I sleep where you command,]] says Yolotl.

Sarella stares into the middle distance in thought.

[[You want death still?]] asks Sarella, [[or life? Or no command? You want me no command you?]]

[[Freedom?]] asks Yolotl.

[[Yes,]] says Sarella, [[freedom?]]

[[Why?]] asks Yolotl, [[why would you free me?]]

[[You see other men?]] says Sarella, [[skin, their skin…,]] she falls back into the Common Tongue: "ah Seven hells, the pale ones, the Andal men."

[[The limestone men,]] says Yolotl.

[[Yes!]] says Sarella, [[they no trust stranger. Me, you, stranger. We want bed? We work together.]]

Yolotl looks down, considering this.

[[For this you'd free me?]] he asks.

[[Yes,]] says Sarella,[[I free you.]]

He pauses to consider this too.

[[And what would I do with freedom?]] asks Yolotl.

It's true, thinks Sarella to herself, it's not as if he has anyway of finding his people again. If they're really new to Westeros they're probably stumbling around themselves.

[[You come with me,]] says Sarella, [[to the old place, there I find you shelter. Food.]]

Yolotl raises an eyebrow.

[[Men of the old place, they...study. They study all things,]] says Sarella, [[you are new. They study you.]]

This comment doesn't inspire much faith in Yolotl, although truth be told it's difficult to tell. The travel hasn't been kind to him and although the rations are better than the slop they fed him back in castle Starfall they aren't near enough to bring him back to good health. He directs his gaze back at the Lavender Lady, glum.

[[What are your beds made of?]] asks Yolotl.

* * *

The man who the runs the inn is a light-brown haired Andal named Leon. He is fifty or so and has the lean muscular look of a proprietor who knows how to handle an ornery patron along with the casual manner of a proprietor who doesn't inquire about personal affairs. It is for these reasons that Sarella selected Leon to be the one to hold on to her boy's clothes, knowing that he wouldn't sell them off the moment she left. Even this veteran innkeep raises an eyebrow at the sight before him: Sarella, teak-skinned and wearing a dress much too fine to be travelling with, her arm locked the arm of Yolotl, a man almost as dark-skinned wearing only a cloak wrapped around himself, owner of a face that makes no racial sense to Leon's Westerosi sensibilities.

"Seven smile upon you," says Sarella with a slight bow of the head, "I told you I'd be back."

"So you did," says Leon, "you'll be wanting your clothes back I take it?" asks Leon.

"And a room," says Sarella, "just for the night."

"Mmhmm," says Leon, "the same one as before, on the corner?"

"If it's available, please," says Sarella.

"It is," says Leon. His eyes go from her to Yolotl and back again.

"You found yourself a husband out east?" asks Leon.

"Yes," lies Sarella, "this is my betrothed. He hails from the east and wanted to see the Andal lands."

Leon looks to Yolotl.

[[Say what I told you to,]] says Sarella to Yolotl.

"Your land very beautiful," says Yolotl.

"It is," says Leon, "looks even better from that corner room."

The other patrons, gathered around the rough counter before the wine barrels or around a table of roast chicken or near the warm hearth, all of them have their conversations slowed by the foreign couple that could so casually afford one of the inn's finest rooms. Once Leon hands Sarella her pack of clothes and the room's key she gives a perfunctory curtsy. Unsure of the meaning of her curtsy Leon almost begins to do it himself before Sarella puts a panicked hand on his chest.

On the way up through the inn and up the stairs Sarella thinks that if perhaps she was with another man someone would have already stopped to ask her where the two of them hail from. But just as Yolotl's appearance stunned Leon so too does it stun all the others. His tattoos, his hair, his face, they're all so strange that the patrons are preoccupied with simply trying to take it in. It takes for Sarella and Yolotl to cross the room and go through the doorway for conversations to begin in earnest over just what sort of Essosi looks like that.

Up two flights of stairs and through a heavy door that opens into a warm room with roughly noble furnishings. The bed has four posts and there's an intricately carved table and chairs of a dark wood; the sheets have light lavender coloring, the rug is a deep purple, and on the wall there is a painting with the eponymous flower. Subtle it isn't, a low born's estimation of a highborn's fancy, but it's much finer than the drafty closets that are made available to the common traveler. Clean and slender window panes make up the south east facing corner of the room where one can stand and see the other patrons coming and going in the courtyard before the inn below.

Yolotl doesn't notice any of these things. He makes for the bed, running his hands over the sheets, placing his head down on the pillows. After a few moments, he snores. Sarella for her part feels that she ought to bind his hands once more, but a deal has been struck. He's kept his end and it wouldn't do to turn around and bind him once more. She pulls the crude small dagger out of her waist belt and sets it down on the table. She turns her attention to the pack that Leon gave back to her and much to her relief everything is accounted for. The doeskin breechers, the green brigandine with the studs, a pair of sturdy black boots, acolytes robes, and the three links in her modest Maester's chain: bronze, yellow gold, and copper. These last she leaves in the pack, putting on the breechers and the brigandine, discarding the dress. The Reach is no place for Sarella. Alleras fares much better here.

The next morning Alleras rises in bed beside Yolotl who is still deep in dream. With a yawn he rises from the bed goes to observe the world outside from the corner windows, happy to have time for contemplation somewhere that passes for warm. Much as when they were on the road, Yolotl awakens, and begins to toss and turn while in search of more sleep. Now comes the second thing that Alleras must rust this foreigner with. That he is dressed now as a young man is not something that goes unnoticed by Yolotl. Groggy, with one eye still closed, Yolotl lifts his head up to get a better look at his traveling companion.

In Dorne people take lovers of either sex, and so the Dornish are more understanding of the Alleras' unusual preference in clothing, and even there, it's still seen as something odd. In the rest of the Seven Kingdoms however people are much more prudish, to the point of punishing those who take lovers of the same sex with death. As such they see someone Alleras as a deviant, like some sort of perverted deceiver, worthy of all the scorn that can be heaped upon him. People can't usually tell by looking at him of course. He would have prefer no one know who didn't need to but with Yolotl it can't be helped. Alleras isn't sure of which mind Yolotl will be and, although he feigns aloofness, inside he teeters nervously between the fear of rejection and the relief of acceptance. Yolotl offers neither of the two - his reaction to Alleras' change of clothes is the same tired confusion and irritated fatigue he has for horses, cheese, and the Common Tongue. He turns over again, burying his head under a pillow.

Alleras smiles, then frowns.

"Get up," says Alleras, "we have to get going."

"Please, more sleep," says Yolot.

"No," says Sarella, "the quicker we get to Oldtown the quicker you'll have better food. Now let's go."

* * *

It's a shame that Archmaester Marwyn will be gone by the time Alleras returns to the Citadel. Out of all those gray beards he would be the one most tickled by the idea of an entire army wielding obsidian weaponry, perhaps as much as he would be by the sight of the Targaryen girl's supposed dragons. Samwell will surely be quite interested in Yolotl however, and undoubtedly the other Archmaesters will want to speak with him as well, if only to suss out whether or not they could incorporate him into one of their own theories, or use him to destroy a rival's theory. A Maesters vows don't humble or chasten him - they just make him ravenous for those intellectual delights which must now replace the carnal ones.

Come look and see the riddle the Sphinx has brought us, Arellas imagines them saying. He quite likes this thought and he returns to it often while listening to the plodding thuds of hoof against earth. Yolotl rides beside him now instead of behind and the hoof falls of his horse's' steps mix in with those of Alleras'. There's a wind blowing in from the west and it sweeps across the grass like water, a handful of yelllowed tree leaves in tow. Yolotl's gaze is fixated on these yellow leaves, following the way they move, trying to trace them back to the trees they fell from.

[[Will you tell story again?]] asks Alleras.

[[The story of teotl?]] asks Yolotl.

[[Yes,]] says Alleras, [[start from before.]]

How useful it will be, thinks Alleras to himself, to be the only conduit between a discovery and the Archmaesters.

Yolotl pauses to recall where he left off.

[[You said First Dark,]] says Alleras, [[begin from First Dark.]]

[[Hmmm...,]] says Yolotl to himself, [[Yes...the First Dark, the first War of Rot. No one knows how long the First Dark lasted - in the Dark, humanity didn't count the days. To ensure that mankind served in their warring the Four Siblings bound the teotl within humanity to that of the Sun, instilling in the hearts of men a fascination with flame and a hunger for warm life. In the Dark, without the nourishing fire of the Sun, the teotl within humanity began to rot, and all among the people one could see the Mark of the Ikualotl: a perfect black circle, etched into the flesh of one's back. Those who bear the mark are the Rotted Ones, forsaken by death, unable to taste the riches of food or the pleasures of drink. Their inevitable fate, slowed only by the teotl they consume from their victims, is to lose their memories - the faces of their loved ones, the places of their childhood, their own names - until all that remains of them is a husk in the shape of a human being, a monster that knows only a ravenous hunger for life. With these monsters the Siblings wage their war.

In time one among the Four will find some momentary truce, some advantage they can press, allowing that Sibling to hold the Sun aloft for a time. Their strength will inevitably falter and one of the other Siblings will strike them down, beginning the war again. Then after that war another truce will be found, the Sun will be held aloft, then that Sibling's strength will fade, and another will attack them for the privilege of bearing the Sun. And again and again, forever.

All that humanity knows of this world, of this life, exists in these brief moments of sun-light, beset on either side by vast darknesses of chaos.

This cycle has repeated itself five times now, so that we now live under the Sixth Sun, held aloft once more by the Emerald Hummingbird, Harbinger of War, First Among the Flowers and Feathers. We serve her and grant her sacrifice so that she might have the strength to hold aloft the Sun for all humanity.]]

[[That is why you here?]] asks Alleras, [[for humanity? Your bird held sun before. Why come Westeros?]]

[[It's not so simple,]] says Yolotl, [[The Sun fades even with sacrifice, a little weaker with every rekindling. More is needed to ensure the Emerald Hummingbird has the strength to hold the Sun, even when it deadens and darkens into the ikualotl.]]

"Hrmmm…" says Alleras to herself. Then, skeptically: "well, there isn't any ikaulotl here. In Westeros the sun doesn't darken. We've no need for any hummingbirds."

Yolotl stiffens and peers intently in the distance in thought. For a moment it appears as if Yolotl is going to chastise Alleras, perhaps for referring to his hummingbird so flippantly, but instead Alleras senses something like doubt take hold within Yolotl.

[[There…]] begins Yolotl, [[...you...you're mistaken. You misunderstand me.]]

[[No. I understand,]] says Alleras, "the sun doesn't darken in Westeros. Winter comes, it gets cold and it snows, but that isn't the same as darkness."

"Cold is dark," says Yolotl, [[If the Sun cannot melt snow then its strength has faded. The Sun's incandescence is it's strength. Therefore, the presence of cold is the absence of incandescence.]] "Cold is Dark."

Although Alleras is still rough with the language he has a scholar's ear and can tell when semantics are being played up.

[[Your confusion is common,]] says Yolotl, [[the Hinojovo and even some Iwaniku sometimes fall to the same...thought. But they, and you, are mistaken.]] Yolotl lifts his head so his nose rises up just a little bit, [[do you not have stories here of monsters in the Dark of the Sun?]]

In Westeros there are stories monsters that come with the winter, Alleras thinks to himself. They're just stories of course, but given how strange Yolotl and his folk are in their appearance, in their language, in the things they find acceptable in negotiations, it's curious that these two things are similar.

"So what are you saying," says Alleras, "winter comes to Westeros because a hummingbird doesn't have enough blood?"

[[What is _your_ explanation for the Dark?]] asks Yolotl.

Alleras' mind jumps to the stories of the Long Night. Of the Others descending from the Land of Always Winter with a hate for all life, of their ability raise the dead as ravenous monsters, of the Night's King and his corpse queen making sacrifices so gruesome that the north men to forbade his name from entering history. Nothing but stories, even Marwyn the Mage acknowledges it cannot all be true, and yet in Yolotl's tale Alleras finds them half way affirmed.

And now, looking at the strange man riding beside him, Alleras realizes he get's the chance to do something that only a Maester can really do, one of the little pleasures only a learned person can truly indulge. To teach.


	9. Part 9

[The conquistador Hernán Cortés noted that the macuahutil was so sharp it could decapitate a horse in one swing.]

* * *

WHEREIN DAWN TURNS TO DUSK

The Two Masks agree: Itzacoyotl will stay on the island - formerly known as the Arbor and now known amongst the Atlacal as the Place of Berries - to establish a base of operations and capture or sacrifice the remaining the indigene opposition. Once that's done a search mission will be sent north to the western shore where the Ixtehuetlon was last known to be headed. In the meantime Malinalli will lead a smaller portion of the flotilla to search for the Loatilistli out east, in hopes that perhaps the two ships have found each other while they waited for the reinforcements to arrive. Sassamon, highest counselor and former military man, will depart with Malinalli to offer his expertise should difficulties occur.

Thanks to the first charts drawn up by the Tonatli Teon and the first mappings of the Place of Berries the basic contours of this foreign land come into shape. The order from the jade and jasper is to sail in the deep waters away from the coast, or at least the coast that they know of, hoping to find either the Ixtehuetlon or the Loatilistli. If the expeditionary force is still in possession of their ships and their lives they should be patrolling these same waters, looking to avoid confrontation with the natives unless required by an empty storage, waiting for sight of the arriving flotilla. Although the sea is vast the red and green of the Atlacal flags are easy to spot against the blues, whites, and greys of the open ocean. It's made easier still by an Hinojovo contraption: a collection of clear glass coins assembled in a flute-like apparatus called an owl's eye. One can hold an owl's eye up to one's own eye and, while keeping the other closed, see much farther than one could ever see alone. Owl's eyes are rare and difficult to make, but while searching for the expedition Malinalli allowed for Sassamon to try it out for himself. The thing's wooden exterior has it's Lishasan heritage etched into it by means of stylized owls and hawks. It feels expensive to the touch, all light and delicate. When Sassamon holds it up to his eye and looks out toward the eastern coast with it the illusion is instantaneous and complete: it's as if he's only a few hundred feet from the shore instead of a few thousand. As he turns to look out at the endless blue of the ocean he spots a mote of red and green and, setting the owl's eye down so that he might see with his own eyes better, spots the Ixtehuetlon.

The Flotilla ships, some thirty carracks each equipped with Atlacal ballistae, Hinojovan fire, and trained Blades, are lead to the small cove that is the hiding place of the two expeditionary ships. The arrival of reinforcements is met with celebration and the soldiers and ambassadors and builders and peacekeepers all sing and eat and play ulmetl while the jade and jasper gathers together all the official heads. In this way a great deal of knowledge is passed between those Ayamictlan who have spent three months in the indigene lands and those who have just arrived.

Of great interest to Sassamon in these conversation is the existence of the indigene deer-beasts called "horses." The Place of Berries was home to only a few of these beasts, many of which were slaughtered first because they were thought dangerous and second because they were thought food. It was only when they were leaving that Sassamon and Malinalli had the chance to witness Naolin, Head of the Blades, training his men to ride them as indigene do. The endeavor met with mixed success and talks were still ongoing as to whether or not the horses would serve better as food. But among the expeditionary force four Blades swear that the creatures are a danger in the battlefield: Tizoc, Dohate, Mixkoatl, and Nochtli, the only survivors of the massacre of the ambassadors at Starfall, tell Sassamon and Malinalli of the great muscled beasts that are castle horses. Of how they are stronger, faster, and much larger than the lesser breeds used by the smallfolk and the Arbor islanders, of how the indigene mounted fighters ride atop them with their hands free to swing their iron swords, of how the galloping reverberates through the earth like the low cry of a Thunder Hawk. While the iron armor of the indigene can be easily answered by switching from macuahuitl to Blacksheen maces this horse problem is much more difficult. Even if we could take a few horses alive we wouldn't be able to ride them like they do, thinks to Sassamon to himself, and should we attack the indigene would be able to send for and receive aid much faster than we could.

Malinali, although she does not doubt their veracity, is unfazed by these realities. The jade and jasper has contemplated in her chambers, spoke with her Heads, counseled with her counselors, and supped upon the divine mushroom, flesh of the Five Flowered Prince. All of these things made one thing clear to her:

[[A pact was made and a pact was broken,]] says Malinalli, [[the indigene must pay for the ambassadors they slaughtered.]]

Her tone is final.

[[They didn't understand what was happening,]] begins Nayaraq. The old woman from the south turns her burning orange eyes toward the mask of jade and jasper, [[the indigene do not know the ways of Ayamictlan-]]

[[We don't know that,]] says Malinalli, [[all those who could report to us what happened are dead. We have only the second hand accounts of these four Blades here, and their stories are clear: the indigene killed the ambassadors, killed their Blades, and then tried to kill them. For all we know the indigene are acting on the direction of voices in their heads - their pagan "gods".]]

[[And so violence must be met with violence?]] asks Nayaraq.

[[If we allow them to slaughter us without retribution,]] says Malinalli, [[do you think they'll be willing to give tribute?]]

[[Tribute aside, justice ought to be seen to,]] says Commander Ikal.

[[Sassamon,]] says Nayaraq, [[you at least are a man of peace, are you not?]]

[[If what these Blades say is true,]] says Sassamon, [[then we should proceed cautiously. We need to know why it is the ambassadors were killed-]]

[[The Hummingbird's Edicts demand recompense for the dead,]] says Malinalli, [[regardless of intent.]]

[[That may be,]] says Sassamon, [[but the dead must be fairly accounted for first, and the accusations clearly articulated, must they not?]]

[[Will we receive such a fair accounting of facts?]] asks Malinalli, [[Ikal and his forces have been raiding their coasts.]]

[[Sparingly,]] says Ikal, [[for this very reason. We've kept to raiding lonely caravans or the more challenging looking opponents we've found at sea. From what the indigene tell us, the squid men, they call them Ironborn, the Ironborn are not aligned with the purple banners of the Starfall. We're still, massacre aside, on fairly neutral ground.]]

[[Better to fight on that neutral ground than on the open ground against horses,]] says Sassamon, [[misunderstandings are common in diplomacy. We have ways of dealing with them. We don't have ways of dealing with beast-mounted riders.]]

The assembled take this into consideration.

[[But we still need a plan for it, won't we?]] asks Nochtli.

Sassamon agrees with the young Blade, and although he expects him to be reprimanded for speaking out of turn by his Commander, nothing is said. Ikal has a faraway look in his eyes, the wrinkles of his face deepened by the rictus of thought. Whatever he devises will have to be half warfare and half bison hunt, and will rely on the shaky supposition that the indigene have no other such beasts at their command and no other tricks up their sleeves. A challenge for even the most talented of tacticians.

The rest of the meeting is spent deliberating over a few theories as to how to defend or attack against mounted riders, but few feel confident in untested strategies against unfamiliar foes.

It's late in the evening now and the crescendo of festivities has passed. The inlet the Atlacal have been hiding in, Crow's Cove, has people sitting around fires instead of dancing around them now, the orange of the fires matching the orange of the sunset sky outside. Only a single lonely flute plays somewhere among the rocky walls, and the scent of maize meal and boar-meat is faint, carried out to sea by the wind. The meeting and his duties concluded Sassamon wanders through all of this, contemplating the place called Starfall and the indigene said to rule it.

At the edge of the cove nearest to the sea he sees Nochtli, one of the four Blades to have survived the massacre. The young man of two and twenty is seated on a stone staring out at the water as it crashes against the rocky coast. Although he's been in these indigene lands he's kept the sides of his head shaved shear and his hair is kept in a clean top knot. Rising up from under his tunic Sassamon sees his tattoo, a stylized Atlacal hand rising up along the left side of his face, the emblemage of The Flayed Man, from whose flesh the Four Siblings created maize and humanity. The wind is blowing and it must be cold where Nochtli sits but he seems not to notice it. Hoping to gleam a little more information - speaking face to face always yields more nuance than being spoken to in a gathering - Sassamon makes his way over.

[[Greetings Nochtli of the Fifth Snake Day,]] says Sassamon as he approaches.

[[Greetings counselor,]] says Nochtli.

[[Would you care to join me in a smoke?]] asks Sassamon, [[I have the sweet stuff from the Needle Desert.]]

[[I don't smoke,]] says Nochtli.

[[Hrmm,]] says Sassamon. He produces his pipe, black with a few engraved orchids painted in purple - the same shade as the paint reaching up to his left eye - dips a twig in a fire resin roll and lights up with a long drag.

[[What do you make of our chances against the indigene horse riders?]] asks Sassamon.

Nochtli looks at him. Bluntness draws attention if nothing else, thinks Sassamon to himself.

[[I don't know,]] says Nochtli, [[I'm not a commander.]]

[[But you've seen them yourself,]] says Sassamon, [[first hand experience counts for something.]]

Nochtli thinks on this, looks back out the entrance to the cove at the sea.

[[I think we can cut them down,]] says Nochtli, [[the riders wear armor but the horses don't hardly wear anything, especially not around their legs. We'd get trampled in the process, but at least they wouldn't have horses anymore.]]

[[I was thinking the same thing,]] says Sassamon, [[We'd need a way to force from charging us. A fine spear planted in the ground and pointed outward could do - they couldn't charge us without impaling themselves. The Nui to the north of the Dawn Lands use this tactic to keep themselves safe against wild bears and I don't know why it wouldn't work here.]]

Sassamon takes a deep drag and exhales slowly, allowing time for the recognition of his cleverness, but no recognition comes. He looks over at Nochtli who only nods slightly.

[[What troubles you young Blade?,]] asks Sassamon, [[normally you Atlacal are howling to go to battle or, barring that, to discuss it.]]

Nochtli says nothing. Then: [[Why did we come to this place?]]

[[For tribute,]] says Sassamon, [[for the Sun.]]

[[For that we needed to come here?]] asks Nochtli, [[we need all these people, we need to come all this way? The Rekindlings haven't failed in centuries.]]

[[Better to be safe than sorry,]] says Sassamon.

Again, Nochtli says nothing.

Sassamon, a proselytizer of some years, can sense when another's spirit has been weakened by the world and is receptive to the tales of Nanaboshk. But before he can begin into a story, Nochtli interrupts him.

[[They have no ikualotl here,]] says Nochtli.

[[How do you know that?]] asks Sassamon.

[[It's what the captives say,]] says Nochtli.

[[And you believe it?]] asks Sassamon.

[[Yes,]] says Nochtli, [[they don't know. They don't know anything. They just eat their grass bread and worry about what their seven gods think of them. The Needles say most of them can't seem to understand teotl.]]

[[This all seems like more reason for us to be here,]] offers Sassamon, [[they're still lead by illusions, they still think their mirages are real. It's the kind thing to do to help them see the falseness of these things, is it not?]]

[[Maybe,]] says Nochtli.

Sassamon takes a long drag.

[[What's this hesitance really about?]] asks Sassamon, [[I'd expect such musings to have occurred much before a young man would choose the Blades as his Art.]]

[[I- we were never supposed to find anything,]] says Nochtli, [[the expeditions were always-]]

[[An easy way to fulfill one's service,]] says Sassamon. Now he can see what this is about.

[[Yes,]] says Nochtli, [[Moe'Uhane was a century ago. Before that it was the northern tribes, three hundred years ago. The conquests were over. If the Rekindling didn't need more after all those years, why does it need more now?]]

Sassamon takes another drag of his pipe.

[[Do you doubt the cosmovision?]] asks Sassamon.

Nochtli furrows his brows and looks out the entrance of the cove toward the rocky shoreline.

[[Not all of it,]] says Nochtli, [[just this part.]]

[[But what else relies on that part?]] asks Sassamon, [[wouldn't other things have to fall away?]]

Nochtli's gives a little sigh of frustration and with that Sassamon knows he's pushed too far. A convert knows when someone's trying to convert him. It's best to avoid leading questions and simply allow them to find their own way. Otherwise you risk the convert doing what Nochtli does now:

[[Would they? It could just be one illusion,]] says Nochtli, [[the rest could still be solid.]]

A mind can only be opened so much at once. Too far and it recoils, preferring it's familiar notions to the new and unsettling ones.

[[Perhaps,]] concedes Sassamon, afraid of pushing Nochtli even further into recalcitrance.

The last of the sun disappears below the horizon, allowing the stars the darkness they need to shine. Tomorrow, the day after, and the day after that will be spent in preparation. The Atlacal prepare for war like a game of ulmetl, Sassamon thinks to himself. In fact there are certainly some among their number who've participated in the Flower Wars back home. All of which makes Nochtli's melancholy stand out all the more.

* * *

When word came that the Martells had thrown their support behind Daenerys Stormborn, the Dragon Queen from across the Narrow Sea, supposed heir to the Iron Throne, Edric imagined there would be a great amount of fanfare. The Sunspear, Gerold explained to him and the rest of the small council, was willing to throw House Dayne to the Lannister lions - apparently it was Arianne Martell who made the attempt on the princess Myrcella's life and who ordered the death of the Kingsguard Ser Aerys Oakheart. She planned to blame Gerold for their murders so that when the Lannister came to exact their revenge she'd be rid of three birds with one stone. But Myrcella got away, forcing Arianne to torture the princess into lying, and forcing the Darkstar to flee in fear of his life. All of this is to say, Gerold makes clear, is that any hardship or engagements Arianne Martell might enter that restrain her ability to attack House Dayne, such as engaging with the Golden Company and entering the war of the usurper queen, are to House Dayne's advantage and is the righteous justice of the Father made manifest in the world.

How thrilling, Edric thinks to himself, Gerold knows first hand how unjust this world and the spoiled highborn can be. The Darkstar is not so unlike the Brotherhood of Banners, thinks Edric to himself, he knows how corrupt the highborn can become once they're ready to throw the smaller folk to their enemies.

Aunt Allyria however doesn't seem very pleased. Sitting there at the head of the small council table Edric notices that Allyria never once looks at Gerold as he explains all of this. Instead he sees her hold her necklace, the Lodestar, pale white charm of the Dayne women, turning it over and over again in her hand. Ser Brownstone also shows a strange hesitance toward the Darkstar, and none of the reverence that Edric would imagine a knight of the realm would have toward a fellow knight of such skill. Why? Gerold Dayne seems a reasonable enough fellow. His thinking is sound: if Arianne is willing to callously throw House Dayne to their enemies then House Dayne cannot be expected to keep their oath to the Sunspear, or to rally around this usurper queen, and should instead care for its own lands. Allyria herself agrees to this - when Gerold motions to her, to have her vouchsafe his story and his suggestions, she gives a nod. The Sers Rorrigo and Fernand notice this and interpret it, like Edric does, as a grim acceptance of reality.

Maybe she's afraid, Edric thinks to himself. He himself is afraid. Edric remembers the bloodyness of combat and the tragedy of seeing the light go out of a person's eyes. To have scene such atrocities breeds a desire to avoid seeing them again. But Gerold Dayne is the Darkstar! He is the finest swordsman in Westeros now living, if the rumors of Ser Barristan Selmy's death are to be believed. If ever there was a knight that could fight the Martells and win, it would be one such as him.

It is for this reason - the possibility of Martell aggression - that the young Edric Dayne says:

"Perhaps cousin Gerold should be made Sword of the Morning. He could wield the Dawn against the traitors."

This statement causes Gerold to grin and aunt Allyria's eyebrows to rise in surprise.

"That would require some preparation," says Allyria, "there are ceremonies, blessings, prayers, and I do believe that a tournament must first be called and seen to its end before any of that can even be started."

"But cousin Gerold is the finest swordsman in Dorne. People say so, don't they Gerold?" asks Edric.

"I don't like to boast," says Gerold, "but I won't deny hearing such things said."

"If we already know who's the best-" begins Edric.

"Now Edric," says Aunt Allyria. Her tone is firm and serious and not at all what Edric was expecting. "The Sword of the Morning is an important title, respected not just in Dorne but all across Westeros. Marring it's tradition is to mar the prestige of House Dayne."

For a moment young Edric feels as if the tone is meant to punish him. She's right after all: it simply won't do for a Lord to abandon tradition for the sake of quickness. A good Lord is just. A good Lord keeps the laws of the land and the laws of the Seven.

"Perhaps," begins Gerold, "but perhaps the young Lord is simply considering the present circumstances…"  
"No," says Edric, "Aunt Allyria is right. The Sword of the Morning is important. It's tradition demands respect."

Allyria gives him a smile.

"Then," says Gerold, "perhaps Maester Cidrio could set the ceremonies in motion."

"I-" begins Maester Cidrio.

"Nonsense," says Allyria, "the barbarian threat has to be dealt with. They're still raiding along our coasts. Some of our bannerman report rumors that they've begun taking slaves. Everything must wait until that threat can be seen to."

Allyria looks at Gerold for the first time and says: "Surely it would be a small task for the Darkstar."

"You could take them cousin Gerold," says Edric, "I know you can."

"I am glad to have your high esteem my Lord," says Gerold sweetly, "If dispatching these barbarians is what is required then I shall do so. Then, with Dawn in hand, I shall defend Starfall and High Hermitage against the duplicitous Martells."

"That might be trickier than you think," says Allyria, "the Sand Snake made off with our only prisoner."

"Hmph," says Gerold, "Well. What is there to know? The barbarians have ships. They did not have horses. We have ships as well as horses."

"You've not seen what their ships are capable of-" says Ser Brownstone.

"What could they possibly be capable of?" asks Gerold, "Didn't you say they wore wooden sandals? Armor made of rope? Swords made of wood and dragonglass? Feathered helms - you mentioned feathered helms did you not?"

"Yes," says Ser Brownstone. Then he adds hastily: "my lord."

"So tell me Ser Brownstone," say Gerold, "what holds up better under a blade, iron armor, or feathers?"

"A most fair observation my Lord," speaks up Ser Rorrigo, "but these barbarians are not to be underestimated."

"I agree with Ser Rorrigo my Lord," says Ser Fernand, "their ships are fast and we've been unable to catch them out in the open water. When our patrols encounter their raids along the coast they're forced to engage on horseback or not at all, such is their viciousness."  
"And even then," says Ser Brownstone, "they keep their backs to the water making it difficult to find an angle to charge. They might be godless heathens, but they know how to conduct themselves on the battlefield."

Gerold Dayne considers this, but only briefly.

"I will see to it," says Gerold Dayne, "my men will see to it. As Lord Edric himself said, there is no man in Westeros who can best me in single combat, and I've yet to be routed by anyone besides a treacherous Martell. I doubt seriously that any man wielding a wooden sword would be able to stand a chance against me. After all, how many did you say there were?"

"Three ships worth," says Ser Brownstone, "although the third might have returned to send for reinforcements. Sailors are reporting seeing strange ships out west toward the Arbor. We've sent word to the Citadel and to the Arbor both. The Citadel gave us a non-answer, something about seeing to the situation themselves, and the Arbor hasn't returned our message at all."

"The Ironborn," says Gerold dismissively.

"Mayhap," says Ser Rorrigo.

"Possibly," says Ser Fernand.

"We've added a few ships to our fleet," says Ser Brownstone, "but if the Atlacal reinforcements have ships like the first ones we encountered they will not be enough."

"We might lose the naval battle," says Gerold, "but they couldn't move inland. They'd be no match for the mounted riders of High Hermitage out in the open. Unfortunate that we would lose control of the Torrentine's bay, but the barbarians would inevitably run up against either the Redwyne Fleet or the Iron Fleet, and we'd be rid of a problem."

"Unless those two destroy each other first," says Allyria.

"Then I suppose we'll just have to pray to the Seven that they haven't," says Gerold.

With little fanfare the meeting adjourns. The Darkstar is joined by the three Sers to meet with the bannermen from High Hermitage and to begin working on a plan to deal with the barbarian Atlacal. Aunt Allyria leaves after them, taking Maester Cidrio aside, speaking to him concerning the ceremony for the Sword of the Morning in a tone that doesn't sound understanding, leading him down to the treasury where the greatsword Dawn is kept.

For his part the young Lord Edric Dayne goes to the Palestone Sword. Before his return from the north Edric's aunt Allyria maintained the Sword empty, unable to forget the fact that her sister threw herself from it's window. But seeing as how Edric hardly knew his aunt Ashara, and how he is to be the Lord of Starfall, Allyria decided that it's only right that the tower be his. All the curtains, the rug, the bedsheets, are done in the dark purple of the Dayne men, contrasting with the light pale stone that make up the floors, walls, and the stone trim carved to look like stars.

So much white and purple in one place, unknown in nature, gives one a sense of surreality, a surreality that Edric finds is a fertile place for ponderings. Although only two and ten Edric has seen a great many things that require serious consideration. The little miracle of fate that lead him to the fugitive Arya Stark, daughter of the man once betrothed to his aunt Ashara, in whose room he is now. The six resurrections of Ser Beric Dondarrion, and his suicidal resurrection of Lady Stoneheart, once a Stark herself. The killing of a barbarian warrior, an Atlacal Blade, executed calmly and cleanly in the name of a pagan god. The young king Tommen, a boy his own age, throwing himself from a window after the destruction of the great Sept.

Edric goes to a grand window frame. The sun is high in the sky and one can see clear out to the horizon, to the sea and all along the coast that Dorne shares with the Reach. Edric knows the things he's seen have changed him, but he's not sure how - he doesn't know anything besides the life he's lived. All he knows is that the other children of Starfall look at him differently when he speaks honestly and truly as he did when he was among the Brotherhood without Banners. And that the adults, the Sers and the Ladies, look at him with something like fear when he deigns to discuss the trials of warfare. Asking them to explain does nothing. They simply lie and pretend that their face is not in the shape that it is. But such is the burden of Lordship, thinks Edric to himself, a good Lord is responsible for his people, even it causes them to look at him differently. This was something that the former Ser Beric Dondarrion once said to Edric, one of the many things he told Edric in order that he might become cruel like the highborn they rebelled against. Edric hasn't forgotten them yet and he doesn't ever intend to.

For some weeks the Darkstar lives with them in Starfall. Although Edric is happy to have more family around him, and even happier to hear Gerold's tales of adventure and heroism, aunt Allyria refuses to be in the same room as him. Indeed, she goes so far as to urge Edric not to speak with his cousin, but as his thirteenth name day is quick approaching her warnings come as respectful suggestions. Allyria couldn't be cruel to him - stern perhaps, but not cruel. Edric is thankful for his aunt's soft touch, but in this he's decided that she's mistaken. What is wrong with the Darkstar? Simply because he is to be feared on field of battle doesn't mean he has to be feared by his family. In fact, for having brought the Martell treachery to them he should be inducted into the main branch of the Dayne family. But that can come after he's become the Darkstar.

It's not as if Edric has much time to spend with the Darkstar anyway. Gerold Dayne is called away periodically by the good Sers of southwestern Dorne, asking for his aid in finding and destroying the barbarian Atlacal and, now that the Martell call to arms has come, to ask for his counsel on whether they should support the Sunspear in backing a foreign Targaryen queen. The hunts for the Atlacal ships are unsuccessful, but Gerold's beguiling of the lesser lords manages to bring a few to his side and away from the Martells. Not enough to tip the scales very much, but more will follow. Gerold's tongue, like his hair, is silver. He tells them: What do they have to fear? If the Martells march against King's Landing they cannot march to the southwest to re establish their authority. And even Aegon the Conqueror could not take Dorne from the Dornishmen. Even if this supposed "Mother of Dragons" is Aegon's equal they'd still have nothing to fear from her. So why die for her war? What do they have to gain? Why not stand firm on the lands of their ancestors, and leave the rest of the world to its own devices?

Edric busies himself planning for his thirteenth name day. He asks only that Maester Cidrio help him plan it, since his aunt is still busy working as the stewardess of Starfall and he doesn't want to trouble her. There's been a chill in the air recently and rumors have started up among the smallfolk in Starfalltown that it won't be long now until the Citadel sends out the white ravens that signal winter. We'll have spiced cider and beef for my nameday, Edric thinks to himself, to keep the cold out of our bones. He and Maester Cidrio walk through the courtyard of castle Starfall, Cidrio listing off the various supplies that have been acquired or that need acquiring and Edric nodding along to his requests. There among the pale stone walkways that criss cross the flower beds a messenger comes before the young Lord Edric Dayne, a young brown haired Dornishman from the guard, who says to him:

"Milord, your Lady Aunt and Lord Cousin summon you to your solar. The barbarian fleet approaches from the sea."

* * *

On the Thirteenth Water Day of the First Fortnight of Movement in the Tenth Year of the Reed, a clear day with a chill wind, Nochtli finds himself in the second wave of ships that will run aground on the docks of Starfalltown. He's posted at the Loatilistli's rails looking out at the water along with Mixkoatl, Dohate, Tizoc, One-eyed Olin, Ek Chuah, and the rest of the Blade force that the Loatilistli can hold. Out of nervous habit Nochtli digs his thumbnail into the wooden handle of his Blacksheen mace. He tries to stop it when he notices it but he doesn't always notice it. Standing there he focuses on the sensation of the leather straps of his bronze and wood shield pressing into his flesh and the nearness of this protection gives him some relief. His salt armor - rope-like horizontal bindings of eastern river-cotton, hardened by brine and the rare red moss of the Blades - no longer falls and rises in the quick ragged rhythm of his breathing.

He's been to battle before. Mock battles in the School of the Emerald Hummingbird, then the escape from Starfall, then the raids along the indigene coast. He has seen blood and combat. But storming the docks of a city is a much different animal than the occasional raid on travelling merchants. Unlike that scattered banditry where intimidation would often do the work here he'll actually have to raise his arms against opponents intent on fighting.

To the starboard side is the rocky coast of the dry orange landscape the indigene call Dorne and that Nochtli and the others have taken to calling the Needleless Desert, for in this foreign place there are no cacti. To port are the greener shores of the Reach, which, although much more fertile, exist in a place where the winds seem to go dead. All around him, obfuscating Nochtli's view with sails and masts and people, are the carracks of the Flotilla, their great yakruna wood hulls carving their way through the sea, the banners of the Triple Alliance snapping in the wind. Up ahead of him Nochtli can see the ships that will make up the first wave of grounded assault, and ahead of them he can see the faster ships - bearing the perfunctory ambassadors and most of the ballistae - that will attempt to hail the indigene ships. Word has come down that the Jade and Jasper intends to do what Nochtli and the others did along the coast: awe the indigene with power, promise them a chance to keep their lives, and ask for a peaceable surrender. Whether that will work or not Nochtli doesn't know and couldn't say. A singer doesn't always sing his own songs.

In the distance Nochtli sees the faster ships come upon a small fleet of ships bearing the purple and white emblem of Starfall, the sword and the falling star. The Flotilla slows its advance as they wait to see if the indigene will choose negotiation or war. Given the difference in strength - the indigene fleet looks to number thirty, which is the same as the flotilla, but theirs look converted from fishing ships and are noticeably smaller than the Flotilla carracks - Nochtli expects the indigene would need time to confer with their leaders and determine a course of action, but it seems no time is needed.

In the far distance the Flotilla ship bearing the ambassadors raises the red banner and the rest of the Flotilla comes alive with motion and noise.

[[The Needles call for aid!]]

[[Full sails! Full sails!]]

[[Signal the other ships! Signal the Mask's ship!]]

[[Keep to the formation! The archer ships will clear the way!]]

The ships at the edges of the fleet, those equipped with Atlacal ballistae, break forward and establish a firing line. A few moments after the ships settle into position Nochtli can hear the the low twang of the ballistae firing. He watches the great Blacksheen tipped bolts sail through the air and crash straight through whatever indigene ships they strike, causing eruptions of splinters and water in the distance. Fire is concentrated at the Starfall galleys on the outer edge of their formation, leaving a central lane clear for the forward ships carrying the Needles and their protectors a way back, but the Needle ships are dead in the water.

[[They've been boarded!]] shouts Commander Ikal, an owl's eye in hand, [[Press forward! We join our brothers in battle!]]

Nochtli looks behind him at the helm and sees the Commander at the helm of the ship, the Atlacal sailors all around him scattering into action.

The Blades at the rails all raise their arms to the air and shout and yell; they stomp their maces or their feet on the ground. From below deck one can hear the drums begin to beat, and as the assault ships press forward with a favorable wind at their back, Nochtli hears someone begin to sing a war song. It's faint at first but the fighting men begin to recognize the tune and more and more voices join in:

[[The feathers borne, the fire is low,

The Blades go to war against their foes,

How do they fall? How do they fall?

Our arrows rain, our strikes thunder,

The husk and bounty are torn asunder,

These hearts, ripe fruit for harvest.

The Herald falters, darkness looms,

Our enemies wish the world their tomb,

How do they fall? How do they fall?

From the pool of flame, from the sacred water,

We reap the bounty for the Sibling's altar,

These hearts, ripe fruit for harvest.]]

The yakruna wood hull of the Loatilistli groans as it presses forward against the water and Nochtli takes care to steady his stance against the waves. Although the song is done the drumbeat continues and so too do the Blades with their rhythmic stamping. Nochtli is glad for it - the beat is so strong that it forces his heart to beat along with it instead of allowing it's own anxious pounding.

War cries ring across the water, piercing the still blue skies. Although there's a battle on the Needle ships to clear the boarding party the rest of the Starfall galleys fall to the Flotilla carracks. The indigene ships are outranged by the Atlacal ballistae and make the critical mistake of thinking they can close the distance in time to return fire. The ballistae teams might not be accurate enough to slay individual sailors, but they don't need to be. By the time the indigene ships are close enough to fire they've been riddled with enough holes that they're taking on water, so far sunk that they can't turn back in retreat, too tilted for their trebuchets to work with accuracy. Sailors abandon their ships and dive into the water, clinging to anything wooden and buoyant, easy captives for the Blades of the ballista ships.

The Loatilistli and the other assault ships press forward through central lane left clear. A few ships of the first wave surround the forward Needle ships to help clear the last of the indigene while the rest press on toward the docks of Starfalltown. Now when Nochtli looks to port or starboard he sees galleys of white and purple half sunk or in desperate retreat.

These hearts ripe fruits for harvest, Nochtli thinks to himself. He repeats it over and over again. The beat of the drums picks up the pace prompting the Blades to do the same. He looks toward the bow and sees the first wave approaching the docks. Above the low rumble of the sea and win, above the shouting din of battle, Nochtli hears the Blades playing their death whistles.

Nochtli has a death whistle of his own, in a pouch on his left side. Each Blade has one. A plain wooden skull with a simple pipe coming out of the back, almost as if for tobacco, but without any bowl or chamber. Crafted by skilled artisans with years of training - dipped in the blood of sacrifices to draw from their teotl - the whistle creates a rattling blood curdling shriek that perfectly replicates the sound of a human being dying. Although he's heard it before, even played it himself before in the School of the Emerald Hummingbird, as he takes the whistle out of it's pouch and puts it to his lips he needs to brace himself for the sound. All around him his compatriots begin to play, their feet and maces still stomping rhythmically, the air coming alive with the sounds of death.

The sounds of the death whistles up ahead come to a stop and are replaced by the shouting of men. The Blades of the first wave crash upon the indigene docks and spill over the railing of their ships. What native guardsman there are at the dock are scattered and panicked, their eyes searching for the wailing dead they hear from somewhere across the water, their iron swords hesitant. The plumed and salt armored fighters trample through them - the Blacksheen heads of their maces are tougher than the indigene iron and as his own ship approaches Nochtli can hear the hard clangs and thuds of metal being dented inward. The iron-clad indigene guardsman are thrown off the docks or down to the floor as the first wave charges forward, storming the buildings of Starfalltown nearest to the water where the guardsmen fall back to make a stand.

Thud, thud, thud goes Nochtli's heart.

Battle is one of the places where teotl gathers. The human being can feel it, as Nochtli does now:i eons go by as he stands there at the rails waiting for his assault ship to make landfall and then in an instant he's there, on the docks, his feet striking down hard against the floor and propelling him forward. All around him are the strewn the first wave ships, empty save for their skeleton crews. Captain Tizoc stands ahead of him, looking back and urging the charge forward with his Blacksheen mace. Nochtli is already past him with Mixkoatl and Dohate just behind. To his far right he hears the sound of yakruna crunch against stone and he turns to spot the ship holding the Curved Blades wrecked on a rocky outcropping, it's passengers diving into the water, crawling up the rocky shore, and scrambling into the woods that Nochtli used to escape Starfall those few months ago.

Thud, thud, thud.

The indigene buildings pitch roofed and plainly adorned, squarish in design, and from within Nochtli can hear the Blades and the guardsmen splinter the wooden insides mid combat. From one building a Blade is thrown out a window from a second story; from another a guardsmen is thrown out the door and is executed by the Atlacal man following him with a knife to the throat; iron shields bang against brittle human bones; death whistles ring through the air. Nochtli turns a corner onto a street to see a group of Blades outnumbered by guardsmen and smallfolk - noticeable for wearing discolored rags - who've taken up their rusty arms against the Flotilla. Nochtli and his companions slow down and wait for Tizoc's call.

[[To our brothers!,]] says Tizoc after moment, [[repel the indigene!]]

And just as in his mock battles and his raids, Nochtli moves forward with the other Blades, his legs beholden to the chain of command and not to him.

In seven running steps Nochtli is before and indigene guardsman clad in brown leather and armor. Nochtli makes eye contact with the man's unnatural blue eyes and before the guardsman registers his presence Nochtli smashes his mace into the guardsman's iron shoulder guard, denting it in and knocking the man to the ground. Nochtli lifts his mace up and brings it back down on the man's head so that he stops moving. A simple act, not so different from chopping wood or hammering a nail. It feels as if there ought to be more pomp and circumstance. There ought to be something, thinks Nochtli to himself in that moment. But the Mask was clear in her orders. This is to be no Flower War, this is a Rotted War. No captives. If the indigene wish to die in battle then the Atlacal will oblige them.

Thud thud thud, goes Nochtli's heart.

A hail of arrows flits past, missing Nochtli by inches, catching a few of his fellow Blades. On the rooftops: indigene archers nock their next arrows and take aim.

[[Shields up! Right rooftops!]] shouts Nochtli.

Nochtli lifts wood and bronze shield up high and runs to the nearest guardsman, bashing him across the face and using his limp body as a shield just as the volley of arrows rains down.

He looks up and notices the men on the rooftops fall out of sight behind the pitched tile roof. Soon after Nochtli hears their footsteps banging on the wooden steps inside. Sprinting for the base of the buildings he shouts:

[[This way! There's a way up!]] shouts Nochtli.

A door is kicked open to reveal an interior with shelves and chairs strewn about. Somewhere above footfalls against wood ring out, running one way, then the other, then coming to a stop. Nochtli takes a few quiet steps - taking care to plant his heel then easing the weight on to the rest of his foot - and he can hear the indigene upstairs do the same. It's going to be an arrow down the stairway, thinks Nochtli to himself, or peeking down through the railings. Unwilling to die without seeing his killer Nochtli holds his shield in front of him and makes for the stairs.

With two steps the first volley of arrows comes down from above, catching in the wooden pieces of his shield and ricocheting off the bronze. Nochtli takes the stairs two at a time and comes upon the first archer on the stairs and bashes his head with his shield, the arrows caught in it snapping against the guardsmans face. One of the other indigene cracks Nochtli across the face with a swing of his bow and Nochtli's entire body swivels rightward as it tries to keep his neck from snapping. The floor flies up above the ceiling and vice versa as he tumbles backwards down the stairs. Mixkoatl and Dohate step over him to force the indigene back as Tizoc pulls him back into safety.

But Mixkoatl is shoved backward into Dohate and they both tumble down the stairs. An indigene archer dips below the second floor and takes aim, loosing an arrow that lodges itself in Tizoc's throat.

[[Captain!]] shouts Dohate.

Nochtli's head is swimming - the room is spinning - and the din of all this chaos comes to him as if through raw cotton. Tizoc's blood pools on the floor where he's fallen and Nochtli can see a crimson reflection of himself, of the room, of the others.

Suddenly he's on his feet, moving. Mixkoatl is ahead of him charging up the stairs and tackling the first archer on to the floor of the second story - a dark attic with a pitched ceiling. Nochtli charges up the stairs behind him, scouring the dimness for signs of the other archers. He becomes aware, groggily, that Dohate is up here as well, taking wild swings at a man nocking an arrow.

Out of the corner of his eye Nochtli sees a glint in the darkness. The archer takes a moment to be sure of his aim and in this time Nochtli realizes what he's seeing. He swings his shield back up and lumbers forward, his Blacksheen mace dragging the across the ground and his arm ready to swing upward.

Thud, thud, thud, goes Nochtli's heart.

The archer looses his arrow. Nochtli feels an iron bite in his left shoulder but it doesn't matter: with the Blacksheen on his right he shatters the archer's jaw, leaving the indigene a crumpled shadow against the wall.

[[Nochtli! You alright?!]] asks Mixkoatl.

Nochtli becomes aware of himself again and looks around. Only he and his two compatriots are standing. An arrow sticks out of his left.

[[Yes,]] says Nochtli, breathing hard. He looks at the shadow. It doesn't move. [[He's down.]]

[[That's all of them,]] says Dohate. Then: [[Tizoc!]]

The three rush back down to their captain but his chest neither rises nor falls.

[[Captain!]] says Dohate.

There is no response.

[[We-]] begins Nochtli. We what?, he asks himself. He doesn't know. The iron arrowhead burns in his shoulder. Mixkoatl and Dohate are looking at him now, still waiting for him to finish.

[[We...should press forward,]] says Nochtli, [[try to clear the rooftops for the others in the street.]]

[[A blood priest-]] begins Dohate.

[[He's dead,]] says Mixkoatl.

[[If the blood priest is good enough,]] says Dohate [[with a bit of luck, it might not be too late-]]

[[Don't be a fool Dohate Mato,]] says Mixkoatl.

[[What do we do then?]] asks Dohate, [[we just leave him here?]]

[[He died a good death,]] says Nochtli, [[his spirit will go east. Teotl will reclaim the rest of him.]] The words feel empty, standing there, looking at the bloodied husk of Tizoc.

Dohate opens his mouth as if to say something but decides against it. Instead all three of them stand in silence for a moment. The din of the chaos outside wanders back in.

[[We can take the bows from the ones upstairs,]] says Nochtli, [[and post ourselves on the rooftops.]]

[[Better than fighting in the street,]] says Mixkoatl.

Dohate says nothing. Nochtli gets the sense that Dohate finds his and Mixkoatl's pragmatism offensive, given the situation. Nochtli agrees - an offering should be made to Tizoc's spirit. He takes a deep breathe, grabs the arrow coming out of his shoulder, and rips it out in one hard pull, gasping from the pain. We'll have to survive long enough to make the offering first, thinks Nochtli to himself.

Thud, thud, thud.

* * *

Six and ten hands high with a coat of flawless black, the courser of Gerold Dayne, Evenfall, is a sleek and beautiful animal. The light shines off Evenfall's dark mane in a bright silver stripe against the black, like the matching inversion of the Gerold's own streak of black hair against silver. Such was the fear that Evenfall inspired in the stable masters of High Hermitage, such was his unbreaking will, that they had planned on slaughtering him - Evenfall had killed two stable boys. The horse bucked and kicked at any that approached it with a saddle but the animal didn't pull away from the Gerold's touch and didn't buck when Gerold rode him. When the stablemasters asked him how he managed such a feat Gerold Dayne said only that unlike men animals can detect venom. He said that Evenfall knew instinctively that the Darkstar had been weaned on venom and that if the Darkstar were to bleed that Evenfall would bleed, too.

Only the finest stables, the ones nearest to Castle Starfall, are fit for the horse of a man such as the Darkstar, and so that is where the Darkstar now finds himself. That stupid girl, the "Stewardess of Starfall", would not provide him the Dawn, not even now that a foreign army has taken Starfalltown. He must content himself with his old sword, made of plain iron, and stand here among the dark wood stables, pondering the battle to come as his squire Alden fetches his lance and straps on his plate armor.

That stupid girl, thinks the Darkstar as he works himself into anger, that stupid stupid girl, that little whore- But! But. No need to be impatient, thinks the Darkstar to himself. After he's made short work of the barbarian menace his claim to the sword and it's title will be unquestionable. He would welcome it if Allyria denied him then - he's imagined it many times, seeing her pretty little face shatter into tears as he takes what's owed to him.

"Ser Gerold," says a voice.

The Darkstar snaps out of his imaginings.

"Speak," he says instinctively.

"The men are armed and at the ready." The voice belongs to Ser Reynard Blackmont, a cousin of Lady Larra Blackmont. Stocky, black of hair, a reliable Dornishman from an unreliable place. The Blackmonts must still pine to see Yronwood at Sunspear instead of the Martells - for what other reason would they send the Darkstar this lesser Blackmont to aid him? After word of the little nick he gave to the Baratheon girl began circulating? No. Lady Blackmont wants to know just how well the Darktstar's moves against the Sunspear will go. Or if not her, then perhaps the Yronwoods themselves, acting through the Blackmonts. Who knows? Let them watch. Gerold Dayne of High Hermitage is unmatched in combat. Even these bloodthirsty savages will come to know this.

"What about Sewell and Wymond?" asks the Darkstar.

"Your personal retinue is at the ready as well," says Ser Blackmont.

"Have them gather into formation outside the castle gates," says the Darkstar, "I will be out to meet them momentarily."

"Yes milord," says Ser Blackmont.

The lesser Blackmont bows and leaves to find his own horse.

"Alden. Helm," says the Darkstar.

As the boy runs off to fetch the dark steel armor the Darkstar looks up at the high towers of Castle Starfall. Against the clear blue sky their white is a shock, stone that matches the color of clouds. Somewhere up there Allyria Dayne is looking down at him. Waiting for me to die, thinks the Darkstar to himself, rooting for the godless horde. He'll set her straight. He'll set her in all sorts of ways.

Alden the squire boy returns with a helm of a clean pragmatic curvature, in the same shade of dark grey as the Darkstar's other plate. The boy kneels as he offers the helm up to his master. From what house was he again?, the Darkstar asks himself.

"When I return to this stable I expect a bale of hay, seven carrots, and four apples for Evenfall," says the Darkstar. He puts on his helm and mounts his horse. "If they aren't here on my arrival their equivalents will be coming out of your supper."

"Yes my lord," says Alden.

"Lance," says the Darkstar, "quickly."

Alden fetches the cruel dark arm and hoists it up, his hands shaky.

"Don't be so afraid Alden," says the Darkstar, "this won't even take the whole afternoon."

Evenfall's hooves beat against the earth and the Darkstar rides out of the gates of Castle Starfall to his assembled cavalry, the combined mounted men of both Starfall and High Hermitage. A thousand men strong in the purple and white of House Dayne, with purple banners depicting the sword and star flapping in the afternoon breeze. There on the shrubland island of the Torrentine's delta they're lined up in neat rows, the vanguard with their lances at the ready, the riders behind with their hands on their sheaths.

The Darkstar rides out before his men and looks out at the silhouettes of the buildings of Starfalltown in the distance.

"These foreign savages think they can take Starfall without a single horse," shouts the Darkstar out to his host, "men of Dorne I ask you, is that true?"

"No!" comes the cacophonic response.

"Their feathery helms and their wooden swords, are those a match for the cavalry of High Hermitage?" shouts the Darkstar.

A shout from the men goes up: "No!"

"Of Castle Starfall?" shouts the Darkstar.

"No!"

"No! They will fall to our lances and our swords," says the Darkstar, "just like so many before them. To me! Let's show these barbarians the Warrior's strength and the Father's justice!"

The Darkstar rides out and his host follows. The earth shakes with the combined force of so many hooves striking the ground and the air comes alive with the war cries of Dornishmen, their voices crashing and clamoring over one another to be heard. Gerold himself can hear the low whistle of wind as it rushes through the visor of his helm, feels the warmth of his body collecting inside his metal plate armor, protected even from the cool of the air outside of it. There is no fear in his heart: fear requires doubt, and the Darkstar has never doubted his ability - the world has never given him any reason to.

As the cavalry falls into formation the Darkstar finds his retinue on his flanks. Ser Sewell Saloceres, renowned jouster from the north of Dorne, is on his left while Ser Wymond Prestyn, Gerold's sparring partner since he was a boy, is on his right. Glancing behind himself the Darkstar spots Ser Blackmont leading the Hedge Knights of High Hermitage, Darkstar's own collection of former bandits and wayward vipers, lured to his power by promises of gold and glory. And behind them all, the shifting mass of Dornish mounted riders, swords and lances in the air, their faces the hard faces of veterans.

The Atlacal horde appears on the horizon. How many? More than the Darkstar expected, two thousand, perhaps three. On the great plain that separates Starfalltown and Castle Starfall the barbarians have begun to march forward in a triangle formation. As Evenfall approaches the vast green and brown field that will host the battle the Darkstar can see that the Atlacal have posted shield and spearmen at their edges in a tight formation, no doubt to repel riders. So it seems they've learned something in their time in Dorne, thinks the Darkstar to himself. They might actually put up a fight.

From the horde ring the cries of human death wails, hundreds, thousands, as if the savages were hiding a massacre behind their ranks. The sound of it creates a hollow sensation in the Darkstar's chest and he can't help but feel a slight shiver. Yet when he looks out over their number he spots no commotion, he sees the red and green of Atlacal armor, the wooden brown and obsidian black of their maces and shields, but no blood, no gore. His retinue has kept their calm for the most part, but Ser Sewell's eyes are wide and he turns his head side to side in great panicked sweeps.

"First cavalry charge on me!" shouts the Darkstar, rousing the men from their fear, "We break through their right side! Second cavalry charge break off and push the front once we've run them through!"

"Y-Yes sir!" comes the response, unclear from who.

Evenfall presses to the right and the Dayne cavalry splits in two. The Darkstar firms his grip on his lance and his shield, hoists the lance before him in the charing position. All around him he can hear the shifting clanks as his men make the same final adjustments. As they come around to the left side of the Atlacal formation the foreign fighters plant their oblong shields and their spears into the ground and begin shouting. Evenfall finishes the last of the turn and lines himself up to charge the shields. The Darkstar coaxes Evenfall into a full out run, his eyes set on a foreign soldier - his head clean shaven and covered in tattoos, with piercings of gold across his lips - and braces himself for impact as the ground disappears under Evenfall's hooves.

Crack! The Darkstar's iron lance smashes through the man's shield and runs him through. The force of Evenfall's speed and size is such that another foreign fighter is trampled underneath the animal as the Darkstar's corpse-tipped lance tosses aside more barbarians. Ser Wymond manages to impale two feathered helmed barbarians on his lance while the Hedge Knights press ahead, clearing the way for their master to finish his charge through the enemy formation. The sounds of death rattles appears to have ceased, replaced by the sounds of war cries.

The Darkstar drops his lance - too heavy for him to hold now with a man on the end - and unsheathes his sword, taking swings at whatever unfortunate souls that manage to avoid being trampled by Evenfall, slicing flesh and spraying blood, his face neither crazed nor cruel. Up ahead his Hedge Knights do the same, but their charge has slowed, and in the dust kicked up by their horses he sees the figures of humans and horses come in and out of sight. While the Atlacal at the edges of the formation were using spears these one inside wield their dragonglass tipped swords, the ones called macuahuitl, and in a moment the Darkstar can see why: up ahead he watches as the horse of one his Hedge Knights, visible now in between dust clouds, collapses violently to the ground, launching the knight forward. The high pitched whinny of the horse rings out, distinct from the cries of humans. It's soon joined by other: to his left the Darkstar watches an Atlacal warrior slice at the side of a horse, spilling the creatures intestines out on the dirt, the creature stumbling for another few strides before it falls on it's side, allowing the warrior's fellows to descend on the rider with their macuahuitl. To his right an Atlacal warrior falls to a knee and holds his man length wooden sword horizontally, forcing the incoming horse to slash its own legs off. Up ahead the other end of the Atlacal formation has turned it's shields and spears to trap the charge inside the triangle. Without his lance the Darkstar cannot beat the range of the planted spears and Evenfall is forced to slow and turn. Ser Wymond is forced to do the same but he's quickly surrounded by Atlacal and his horse rears as he swings his sword, catching an approaching Atlacal across the face. When the horse's legs are back on the ground another Atlacal takes his macuahuitl in two hands and decapitates the horse in one clean swing. Ser Wymond falls to one side alongside his horse, his leg crushed under the beasts great weight, red viscera coloring the ground and tainting the air.

The Darkstar dismounts and rushes to the side of Ser Wymond. He slashes an Atlacal warrior down before the man can lift his strange wood-and-obsidian mace. Another ignores Wymond and makes for the Darkstar, swinging a macuahuitl wide so that it's easy for the Dayne to duck back and counter by running his sword through through the man's chest. The man stops, stunned, the red of blood washing over his heathen tattoos, and he crumples to the ground.

"Lord Dayne!" cries out Ser Wymond, "Help me! My leg- I think my leg is broken!" Ser Wymond scrabbles at the ground, trying get under his horse for leverage, wincing in pain whenever some movement accidentally forces him to move his broken leg. Darkstar looks around him, sees the chaotic forms of men swinging and crashing against one another through ambling clouds of dust, hears men cry in rage and anguish, the sounds of iron against flesh. An Atlacal warrior, red armor of cloth or leather or rope of some kind, with an obsidian mace in hand, catches the Darkstar's gaze, raising his shield close as he closes the distance.

"Busy," says the Darkstar, "I'll come for you once this is done."

The Atlacal warrior breaks into a run and takes a swing of his mace with the force of his speed behind it. Darkstar weaves under it - his sword is ready for the counter but it only finds the warrior's shield - and the two fighters fall back from one another.

These savages aren't entirely without training, thinks the Darkstar to himself. He adjusts himself, finding the light footing and careful poise of proper sword form, both hands steady on his longsword. Opposite him the Atlacal's stance is wide and undulates from side to side, punctuated by quick movements to adjust shield or arm.

Suddenly:

A feint - but the Darkstar sees it and doesn't flinch, instead shifting his weight forward and slicing across the man's torso. Blood is drawn but the Atlacal only grunts.

Now: the Atlacal charges forward and Darkstar tries to stop him short with a thrust of his sword but the warrior slips to the side and catches Darkstar in the ribs, his armor denting under the tough obsidian - which, in the impossibly long half second he watches the Atlacal finish his swing, he notices isn't like normal dragonglass as this kind hides specks of gold under its inky surface - and he can feel the iron press against his flesh and bone. Malice flashes across the Darkstar's face and he catches the warrior with an iron-braced elbow just as the warrior tries to slip away once more, knocking him off his balance.

It takes the warrior three steps to find his footing again but it only takes the Darkstar one, and with a flash of singing grey iron the warrior's blood spills from his throat onto the dry Dornish dust.

The second charge, the Darkstar thinks to himself.

Somewhere off to his right he can hear the rumble of the horses charging and of men being impaled by the charger's lances, their high pitched screams cut short. The riders of High Hermitage and Starfall become visible once more over the chaos of battle, dust clouds billowing behind them. But their charge also flounders - by the time they're near the Darkstar the Atlacal shields and spear at the back of their formation have turned, trapping them inside the triangle formation as well.

Now Ser Wymond is the last thing on his mind as he fights his way through more bizarrely armored Atlacal trying to close in on the riders still in possession of their horses. Darkstar steps over a man dying on the ground, dodges out of the way of a horse galloping without a riders, shoves an Atlacal to the ground to allow a Dornishman a clean kill and come to his own side. Once the Darkstar finds himself in a place with more purple around him than red, he shouts:

"Evenfall!"

He puts his fingers in his mouth to whistle but there is no response. No matter.

"Gather what horses you can," says the Darkstar to the men around him, "we fight our way out and then ride north to regroup!"

Who is around him anyway? One or two of his Hedge Knights, riders from High Hermitage, and one Ser Blackmont. Which way is north?

"This way my Lord!" shouts Ser Blackmont, "the second charge opened their flank, the foreigners are pulling back!"

With a makeshift retinue surrounding him the Darkstar is escorted through the hellscape out to the border, strewn with shields, spears, and bodies, out to the the clear plain outside the fighting.

"Evenfall!" shouts the Darkstar again. Still, there is no sign of that horse.

Instead, Ser Sewell Saloceres rides out of the fight with a few other mounted riders behind and a group of fighting men on foot, all of them bloodied and short of breath.

"My Lord!" says Ser Sewell, "I am glad to see you are safe, we lost you- once they started killing all the horses-"

"Yes I noticed things broke apart," says the Darkstar, "but they aren't chasing us out, we can come around for another charge-"  
"We've lost a good number of men my Lord," says Ser Blackmont, "the savages may be in retreat but I don't know if we have the strength to give chase, our men are just as blooded as theirs are."

Evenfall!, thinks the Darkstar angrily.

"There's enough for one more charge," says the Darkstar, "We can ride back to Starfall, there are more lances-"

"I don't know if we have the horses anymore my Lord," says Ser Saloceres, "the men were forced to abandon them once the savages started hacking them to pieces-"

"EVENFALL!" shouts Darkfall into the cacophony of battle.

This last draws the attention of Atlacal warriors fighting near the border of their great triangular formation.

"Take my horse my Lord," says Ser Saloceres, "you can return to Starfall and prepare the castle for siege, the men and will deal with these and follow."

"Please my Lord," says Ser Blackmont, "Ser Sewell speaks wisely, better that you return safely so as to plan a counter offensive."

I am surrounded by cowards!, thinks the Darkstar to himself. When this is all said and done he'll make sure they are reminded of their cowardice when they return to their families. But in the midst of battle, even the Darkstar needs men and horses.

"Salvage what horses remain and pull back," says the Darkstar. His voice is flat and he stares out hard into the distance. Glory is won out on the field, not behind the walls of a siege. He will have lost his horse for nothing. "We rally at Starfall."

* * *

From one of the pale towers of Castle Starfall Allyria watches the battle in the distance, the men and horses nothing but dark masses of movement, her fingers wrapped around her Lodestar necklace. She isn't sure what she wants to come of it. Should the Darkstar succeed he will take the Dawn. Should he fail Starfall will be in danger of being overrun by heathen savages. What if he were to die in battle, but the battle won? This would be a fine outcome to wish for, if House Dayne's failure to turn Darkstar to the Martells hadn't already guaranteed it's fate. Without the Darkstar on the field, their troops reeling from the barbarian attack, the Martells would have little trouble coming through and seeing the "rebellious" Daynes put down.

They would take my word against his, wouldn't they? Perhaps not Doran, but he isn't long for this world. Arianne would understand, wouldn't she? And Allyria had housed and fed Sallera as befitting a highborn, nevermind where she ran off to. They would ask why I hadn't stopped him of course, thinks Allyria to herself, why I didn't have him jailed. A thought echoes in the back of her mind somewhere, no matter how many times she sways it away: perhaps I was afraid. There is no Dayne Lord to lead the men of Starfall, and while Ser Brownstone is respected, he is no substitute for Arthur Dayne. Young Edric is just a boy, and a strange one at that. Who would the Darkstar's men have sided with, their jailed Lord, or this pale dark haired girl, this simple 'stewardess'? Allyria realizes now, as she watches the riders of High Hermitage and Starfall break away from the distant chaos and begin their return, that she should have stood her ground, fallen on her sword.

Next time will be better, says Allyria to herself.

The mounted riders that return come escorting a contingent of fighters that appear to have lost their horses - the Darkstar himself, identifiable by his dark armor and purple sash, is not riding his Evenfall - and are in number much smaller than Allyria expected. Perhaps he really did need the Dawn, thinks Allyria to herself. Well. Tough luck.

She remembers suddenly that this spite comes at the cost of men's lives and feels wretched.

Allyria doesn't leave her tower to see the returning men for herself, nor does she leave to keep Edric from doing the same. He's seen blood before. And besides, now that his thirteenth name day is so close the men around him will begin to argue with her and say he ought to know of battle so that he might rule with wisdom. Where is the wisdom in poisoning a boy with violence? Where was the wisdom in sending him to squire for that stupid man - Beric? And where was he? Her betrothed? Her supposed lover? Dead in some northern field, having long forgotten his pledge, abdicating his responsibility over Edric.

Such are the thoughts that occupy her mind as she looks out the window at the fighting men below. Come the evening Ser Brownstone knocks at her door, interrupting her contemplation.

"Come in," says Allyria.

"My Lady," says Ser Brownstone. He gives the perfunctory bow.

Allyria says nothing and waits for him to begin.

"The Darkstar says there was a rout but not one they could press. The barbarians are forced to stay on the defensive in Starfalltown for now. I've taken the liberty of sending ravens to House Fowler, House Blackmont, and House Qorgyle for aid."

"What about the Manwoodys?" asks Allyria.

"I was uncertain if my Lady wished them to know of our troubles," says Ser Brownstone, "given their, ah, more recent amiability with the Sunspear."  
Brownstone at least, is loyal, thinks Allyria to herself.

"Very wise of you Ser Brownstone," says Allyria, "let's not ask for their help until we're sure we need it. There's no need to risk them going to Doran, or Arianne, as the case may be."

"Of course my Lady," says Ser Brownstone.

"Anything else?" asks Allyria.

"The Darkstar has sent a raven to High Hermitage ordering the castellan to send what troops are defending that keep to march south to us."

"And leave High Hermitage unmanned?" asks Allyria.

"The Darkstar is...upset," says Ser Brownstone, "I believe his horse Evenfall may have been slain in the battle."

Allyria chuckles and looks at Ser Brownstone.

"Is, is that why he sent for his troops? Spite? Or do we really need them?" she asks Allyria.

"I believe it is both my Lady," says Ser Brownstone.

"Didn't you say there was a rout?" asks Allyria.

"Yes," says Ser Brownstone, "and they believe the force they met on the field was composed of most or all of the barbarian fighters save those necessary to sail their ships. But if we have time to our lick our wounds then so do they. The Darkstar says that if we can strike again with a superior force, with the fresh army at the front, we can break the barbarians. I am inclined to agree with him. It's not as if it costs Starfall anything."

"If that works," says Allyria, "then we still have to deal with their ships."

"We can call on our allies along the coast," says Ser Brownstone.

"Can our allies match the foreign ships?" asks Allyria.

Ser Brownstone goes to speak but hesitates and falls silent.

"I asked you a question Ser Brownstone," says Allyria.

"I'm not sure," says Ser Brownstone, "perhaps the Ironborn or the Redwynes could dislodge this blockade but...I'm not sure, my Lady."

Allyria looks away from him and back out her tower window.

"See that the Darkstar has what he needs," she says, so low that it's almost a whisper.

"Yes my Lady," says Ser Brownstone.

He departs and Allyria Dayne remains alone for the rest the evening save for when her maids bring her up a plate of minced lamb with pepper, fresh barley bread, and roasted turnips, none of which she eats.

The Atlacal warriors arrive in the twilight of the morning.

Allyria rouses from her sleep, the sounds of distant shouting echoing against the stone walls of the castle. She goes to her window once more and she can see them now: as the sun rises their shadows grow long, exaggerating the cleanness of their formation. Out on the shrubland field they march in wide columns, separating now as they close the distance, maneuvering to surround Starfall.

Didn't you say there was a rout?, Allyria remembers herself asking Brownstone.

Under her feet she can feel the castle come to life, the fighting men streaming out into the courtyard, along the walls, and among the parapets, the women, children, and elderly, heading inside for sanctuary. And more than that: the air itself is charged; the light of day is pale and raw. Unsure of what action to take, but knowing the need to take action anyway, Allyria dresses herself in a hurry and opens the door the moment Edric arrives to knock.

"Aunt Allyria," says the young Lord Edric, "the foreigners have come to lay siege to Starfall." He statement is direct, coupled with a blank expression.

"Yes I saw them," says Allyria, "the Darkstar will see to it, Ser Brownstone as well."

"I already talked to cousin Gerold this morning," says Edric flatly, "he was angry. He was scared. He said that out in the distance he saw the face of a man he killed, but the man only had a dark scar where the wound should have been. Some of the other men said the same thing."

Allyria doesn't know what to make of this, just stares wide eyed at her nephew.

"Do you think they could've come back, like Ser Beric?" asks Edric.

Oh no, despairs Allyria.

"I-I'm sure you misheard," she begins, "the Darkstar, he makes excuses for his failures Edric, I told you you cannot trust what he says-"  
"He believes it true, aunt Allyria," says Edric, "I know he does. Is it so strange a thing? Maybe it's something they can do. Maester Cidrio told me about the sailor's stories he's come across in his research, about a land where there is no death, where maybe they can be brought back like with Ser Beric, maybe they meant to bring back the man they killed in the solar-"

Allyria slaps him across the face. She stares at him hard, her eyes going glassy.

"You are a Dayne," she says, "keeper of the Faith of the Seven, Lord of Starfall. There will be no heathen magic, real or otherwise, in this castle. Do you understand me?"

Shocked, shaken, Edric looks back at her for a moment before his eyes go glassy too.

"Aunt Allyria," says Edric, his voice cracking for only the slightest moment, "if they make it inside-"

"They will not make it inside," says Allyria, "and if they do then I will kill them before they can get to you. You are the last true heir of Starfall, last of the Dayne bloodline, the only family I have in this world. I won't let them touch you."

She pulls him close and embraces him. Edric allows himself a single gasping sob.

The Darkstar, Allyrai thinsk to herself.

He will get nothing.

"Let's go Edric," says Allyria, "we need to find somewhere safe."

With Edric's hand in hers Allyria descends the circular stone staircase of her tower, peering out the windows as they pass by. Their frames become a story: the placid dusty landscape of Dorne to the east; the desert landscape that gives to shrubland; the Riverside Copse, that Ser Brownstone said would be cantripped, seeming to have human figures shifting among the trees; the ramparts of Starfall lined with men in dark armor streaked with the purple cloth of House Dayne looking out at regiments of savages; a pale parapet run through by a massive arrow with a shining black arrowhead the size of an arm. And piercing even the stone walls, even when they aren't near a window, is the low cacophony of men in battle mixed with the high pitched wailing of human death.

As she makes her way through Starfall proper and as the scattered guardsmen find her Allyria gives the order for all fighting men to defend the walls and gates. The servants, the cooks, the maids, the stable boys, the squires and all the smallfolk of the castle rush to and fro in panic, unsure of what to do or where best to do it. Allyria and Edric pass the occasional group of old men, merchants or court creatures, standing together in a grave silence. Many of these don't appear to notice when Allyria rushes past them, which is just fine with her. This way there will be less people to tell the Darkstar where I'm going.

Allyria places her free hand on the Lodestar and pulls Edric closer to her with the other.

Stairway, hallways, stairways, a gate, then a grand double door of clean teak engraved with the sword and star: the treasury of Starfall. The guards that should be at it are gone, most likely at the ramparts as per Allyria's orders, and Edric, ever the good little Lord, has his key with him.

Inside is great central room where the various artworks of the old Daynes collect: statues of the beasts of Dorne in stone or metal, scrolls and tomes of once important knowledge, landscapes and still lifes and portraits. From here there are three rooms, one which holds records, one which holds gold, and one which holds the greatsword Dawn. The doorway to this last is guarded by a wrought iron gate, the sword and the falling star sculpted from steel and arranged above a stylized sculpture of castle Starfall. Behind it one can see the stone statue of the star striking the earth upon which the castle rests where the greatsword Dawn stands supported by the impact.

Allyria approaches the gate, removes her necklace, and opens the gate of the castle sculpture, revealing a socket in the matching shape of the Lodestar. The Stewardess places it in the socket and turns, creating a cascade of clinking that becomes deeper as bigger and bigger cogs shift out of her way.

Truth be told Allyria's never once held the Dawn in her hands. It's to be handled only by the Sword of the Morning, her late brother Arthur Dayne. In Allyria's life there were only two exceptions to this rule: Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, who retrieved it from Arthur's corpse at the Tower of Joy, and Lady Ashara Dayne of Starfall, who received it when the northman came to return it. Now there will be a third exception.

The iron hilt bears a sleek stylized star whose highest point stretches a third of the way down the fuller. The blade itself is so milky pale that it's almost translucent, creating the illusion that it glows faintly. In Allyria's hands the sword is much lighter than she expected it to be, so much so that she can wield it in one hand without trouble.

"Aunt Allyria…," says Edric. Allyria remembers she's brought him here.

"We have to make sure this doesn't fall into the wrong hands," says Allyria, "let's go, we can take refuge in the Palestone Sword. They'll be tired by the time they make it to the top, if they make it to the top."  
Edric doesn't take his eyes off the Dawn.

"Now let's go-" begins Allyria.

From far away the sounds of fighting men sound closer, nearer - are they past the walls already? It couldn't be, Allyria thinks to herself. And yet from outside in the hall she can hear wood clack against stone floor in a way cloth and leather Westerosi soles do not.

With sword before her and Edric safely behind, Allyria creeps toward the door, careful not to make any noise.

Clack, clack, clack.

[[I've got this one, you go on!]] says a voice, incomprehensible to Allyria.

Thud, thud, thud, thud, thud.

"No!" says Ser Brownstone.

Ser Brownstone?

Allyria moves toward the door, and with Dawn in hand, she peeks out the treasury door.

At the far end of the hall she sees Ser Brownstone, sword in hand, standing across from an Atlacal savage, wielding a sword and mace. The encounter is over in a few quick blurs that end with the Atlacal smashing his mace into the side of Ser Brownstone's head, and Allyria can't pull herself away from the sight, feels her eyes pulled toward the crumpled silhouette that is Ser Brownstone.

Ser Brownstone?, she thinks to herself, Ser Brownstone...

The Atlacal stands over the body of her former friend, looking down as if in thought. He glances over his shoulder, startled by something, and in that moment his and Allyria's eyes meet.

Allyria darts back into the treatsury.

"Get back Edric," whispers Allyria, "back behind the Dawn's pedestal."

"A-a-a good Lord-"

"NOT NOW," hissses Allyria, and, seeing Edric's reaction to this, feels wretched once more. But Edric does as he's told.

Clack, clack, clack.

The Atlacal shoves the heavy double door aside to find Allyria Dayne at the center of the treasury room, holding the Dawn in her two hands, pointed at him. The barbarian has the sides of his head shaved shear, the hair on his head tied into a top knot. Although his red armor obscures his abdomen Allyria can see the tattoo of a human hand rising up the left side of an umber face. When he spots the sword pointed at him he stops cold, his dark eyes fixated on the pale Dawn.

Allyria stares at him hard.

The Atlacal raises the shield on his left arm and tightens his grip on his dragonglass mace. Allyria steadies herself, trying desperately to remember the things Arthur would mention off hand. About how you can trap a man's sword for a clean strike to the neck. How your left foot has to be on the outside of their right, of how your left arm must come all the way over so you catch the blade under your elbow. Remember.

A feint - Allyria panics and slashes at the Atlacal. He's quick enough to block but such is the sharpness of the Dawn that it slices the top third of his shield clean off, untroubled by the wood or bronze reinforcing. The Atlacal falls back and stares at his shield, at Dawn, and back again. The sword sliced close enough that some of the hair on his arm is shaved clear.

Not as planned, thinks Allyria to herself, but it'll do.

The Atlacal thinks for a moment. Then he undoes the straps on his left and grips his dragonglass mace with both hands. He drops to a wider stance, gathering his mace up above his head.

Edric, watching from somewhere behind Allyria, lets out a gasp that draws the Atlacal's eye.

Now!

Allyria makes a strike but the Atlacal is quick enough to respond - his dragonglass clashes against the milkglass of the Dawn. Unlike the shield however this gold-flecked obsidian of the Atlacal is tougher stuff. The greatsword of the Daynes cuts into the obsidian, catching at the center of the dragonglass head so that Allyria and the Atlacal are both caught frozen mid-swing, straining against the other. Allyria puts everything of herself into holding the Dawn against the darkness, but the Atlacal is a trained warrior. He forces her lodged sword down to the ground, his free hand flashing a dark obsidian dagger out of its sheath.

Yet he doesn't step forward to cut at her neck or pierce her heart. With dragonglass dagger in hand he looks at Allyria, then Edric hiding behind the statue behind her, then at the Dawn. From somewhere far away come the riotous cries of the fighters and civilians of Starfall. For a moment Allyria considers falling to her knees and begging for her life and in that moment she finds the thought more repulsive than fearful. Although her hands shake and her heart goes cold at the thought of what might happen to Edric, she does not step back.


	10. Character - Appendix

[Note: This character list is not exhaustive.]

 **WESTEROS**

-"Lowly" Lomys, son of a wheat farmer, left orphaned by a bandit attack, now wandering through The Reach with Citlali

-Cleyton, wheat farmer and father of Lomys, Calissa, and Leander

-Layla, wife of Cleyton and mother of Lomys, Calissa, and Leander

-Calissa, younger sister of Lomys, a girl of six

-Leander, younger brother of Lomys, a boy of six

-Allyria Dayne, Lady and Stewardess of Starfall, sole surviving sibling of Ashara, Arthur, and Adon Dayne

-Edric Dayne, Scion of Starfall, son of Adon Dayne, nephew of Allyria, a boy of twelve

-Ser Darrion Brownstone, bannerman of House Dayne, childhood friend of Allyria

-Cidrio, Maester of Castle Starfall

-Ser Gerard Rorrigo, bannerman of House Dayne

-Ser Martin Fernand, bannerman of House Dayne

-Gerold Dayne, the Darkstar, Lord of High Hermitage, head of House Dayne's cadet branch, cousin to Lady Allyria Dayne, accused of the murder of Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard and the attempt on the princess Myrcella Baratheon's life

-Sarella Sand, bastard daughter of Oberyn Martell, sent to investigate the goings on of House Dayne

-Alleras the Sphinx, alter-ego of Sarella Sand, an acolyte of the Citadel travelling with Yolotl

-Branston Cuy, Lord of the Sunhouse, a collector of rare plants and other oddities who seeks the good will and favor of the Citadel

-Irithia Cuy, Lady of the Sunhouse, wife of Branston

-Bethany Cuy, daughter of Lord and Lady Cuy

 **AYAMICTLAN**

-Citlali of the Eleventh Flower Day, Of the Needles, an Atlacal explorer now wandering through The Reach with Lomys

-Akatzin of the Seventh Rain Day, Of the Needles, former partner of Citlali

-Nochtli of the Fifth Snake Day, Of the Blades, an Atlacal warrior sworn to the expeditionary force aboard the Loatilistli, raiding along the Dornish coast. A few of his fellow fighters:

-Mixkoatl of the First Dog Day, Of the Blades

-Dohate Mato, Of the Blades,

-Tizoc of the Fourth Eagle Day, a Captain of the Blades

-Malinalli of the Twelfth Jaguar Day, Mask of Jade and Jasper, one of the two leaders that head the Flotilla. A highly religious adherent to the Atlacal cosmovision

-Itzacoyotl of the Sixth Wind Day, Mask of Jasper and Jade, one of the two masks that head the Flotilla. A cruel and pragmatic strategist

-Sassamon Noosso, Finest Spear of the Dawnlands, Highest Counselor to the Jade and Jasper, an Ayamictlan easterner arriving in Westeros along with the Flotilla of the Triple Alliance.

-Yolotl of the Thirteenth Monkey Day, Of the Blades, captured and crippled by Dayne forces, captured and freed by Sarella Sand, now travelling with Alleras to the Citadel

 **MISCELLANEOUS STUFF:**

 **-** In Atlajtoli/Nahuatl the x makes a 'sh' sound and a c next to an i makes a 'ts' sound.

-'Macuahuitl' were real obsidian swords used by ancient Aztecs. The conquistadors noted that they were capable of decapitating a horse in one swing.

-The actual Nahuatl word for lord is tlatoani, which means something akin to "speaker". Tlon is a fictional title; name derived from the story "Tlon, Uqbar, and Orbis Tertius"

-Atlacal are meant to be an Aztec/Mesoamerican amalgam; Hinojovo is a federation/amalgam of North American Indians; Holy Iwaniku is an amalgam of ancient Incan aesthetics. Together they are the Triple Alliance.


	11. Part 10

[There are some religions that search for the truth, and others that search for the way.]

* * *

OF HEATHEN GODS AND GODLESS HEATHENS

Lomys hasn't given Citlali's religion much thought. She explained everything to him very early on, before he had a good handle on Atlajtoli, when he couldn't understand most of what she was saying. What snippets he caught were incomprehensible: a bird flying alongside the moon, a golden lion that tempts the hearts of men, people with a mark on their backs that allow them to live and die and live again. All sorts of tales, both whimsical and dark, that he couldn't make heads or tails of. His confusion troubled Citlali: it troubled her that Lomys couldn't understand her religion. To comfort her he would smile and nod along and repeat the things she would say, to make her feel as if she was understood. He felt responsible for her happiness. Considering where he had lead her, and what he feels for her now, whatever meager lie he could give to add to her happiness would surely be forgiven by the Father.

Nor does he think about her religion now: nestled against one another out in an alley, their backs to the cheap stone wall of a crooked chimney that's warm from the fire within. The nights have a chill to them now and sleeping under the stars won't be possible for much longer. Citlali pulls her cloak tighter against herself, gathering some warmth to ease her into sleep.

How long has it been since Lomys last had to think of winter? Not since he was a boy, since before Calissa and Leander were born, when his family's cottage had only one room and no barn. All he remembers from that time is leanness - a thin quality to the light, a cold that bit at the flesh, and an unending hunger gnawing at his insides. It wouldn't do to be a pair of wanderers in lean times like those.

Her religion comes to his mind the next morning, when they talk about where exactly it is that they're going to go.

"We can go back to my father's cottage," says Lomys, "We can trade what wheat and hay there still is there. We could sell Whitemane too, if he's wandered back. All we'd need is one deer or boar, we could salt the meat - that'll last two people a good long while -"

"Your father cottage is the first place they look," says Citlali in her rough common tongue, "we have to go somewhere else."  
"How could they know where it is?" asks Lomys, "I never told them where the farm was, I never pointed it out on a map-"

"They have your father name, they know the type of plant you grow," says Citlali, "that is enough."

"So where then?" asks Lomys, "where else could we go?"

At Lomys' question a few passersby, the early birds to work and to market, glance over curiously, but the townsfolk are too busy and move too quickly to pay them too much mind.

[[We can go to the coast,]] whispers Citlali in her mother tongue, [[my people should be on patrol. The Ivory Mask will have sent a flotilla to reinforce our position, especially with the ikualotl so close.]]

Ikualotl, thinks Lomys to himself. At first he thought that it was the Atlajtoli word for winter - Citlali's first explanation was simply of a time when the sun goes dark and a cold night falls across the land. But later on Citlali would make it clear that the ikualotl was something different. She said to Lomys once that at the beginning of the ikualotl one can watch the sun being eaten by darkness while it still hangs in the sky, until there's nothing left but a black circle with a thin ring of light. Unlike the winters of Westeros there is no snow, only darkness, and instead of stories of white walkers that eat the living and raise the dead she talks of rotted people - the ones who live and die and live again - who look and act like anyone else but that sustain themselves on the souls of the living. Citlali claims that the ikualotl can be ended by making the necessary offerings to the right gods, but what those offerings are Lomys isn't sure - he's had trouble enough imagining what it would be like for the sun to go dark in the middle of the day.

"Will they be close enough to land for us to see them?" asks Lomys, "will they be able to see us? See you?"

Citlali pulls her cloak tight against her.

[[I don't know,]] says Citlali.

Will we even make it to the coast? Citlali thinks to herself. There's no point in worrying about finding her people again if she won't have the food and water to survive until then. There's no point in worrying about preventing the ikualotl if she'll be dead.

[[We should find food first, water,]] says Citlali.

"Yes," says Lomys. He places a hand on his stomach.

The two get themselves on their feet, leaving the alley to find the outer edge of the market in the town of Cuy. It's possible they might be spotted by the guards of the Sunhouse there but they have no other choice - in town, the market is where all the food is.

It's still early in the morning and they arrive early enough to watch the last of the merchants setting up their stalls and preparing their wares for display. Townspeople begin to stream into the large oval formed by stalls and the beginnings of haggling fill the air. There are fish from the coast, beef from the fields, and enough salt to preserve them for long travels; freshly baked loaves of bread, turnips, carrots, and vegetables of all kinds, hanging from wooden beams or arrayed on wooden tables across which buyers barter with the merchants. The smell of it all is enough for both Lomys' and Citlatli's stomachs to cry out in hunger.

But with what will we pay? Lomys thinks to himself. They left the Sunhouse with little more than their faded black cloaks of mourning. Well - they could steal. All the food is right there, after all. All it would take is a deft hand or quick feet - or both - and they'd be able grab enough to survive, at least for the rest of the day. Wandering through the market Lomys finds himself casing each stall, watching for the watchfulness of the merchant, keeping in mind the routes that lead away and around corners. His gaze lingers on the food, and although he can't be sure, he imagines his eyes must be wide with hunger.

Citlali for her part is mesmerized instead by a strange old man standing on top of a rock, speaking to a small crowd. The man's graying hair has been shaved at the top leaving a ring of hair about his head almost like a crown, from under which his noticeable ears stick out. He's dressed in tattered gray rags and bare feet, a wooden seven pointed star hung about his neck by a leather strap, and an iron badge with a red star affixed to his chest. When he speaks he does so in a booming voice that belies his years and moves his hands from here and there in grand swooping motions in the style of experienced speakers. His speech is religious in nature but Citlali isn't sure exactly what it's about - she has trouble with the beliefs of the indigene, with this concept of 'gods', who are like Aspects, but with the ability watch all of mankind and to shape teotl with their will. In truth however the meaning of his speech isn't what she's paying attention to - what catches her eye is how the crowd, seemingly in approval of what this old man is saying, will throw a few coins into a small wooden bowl placed just before the rock on which the man stands.

Lomys notices the Poor Fellow as well and listens to his sermon. After a moment however he realizes that it's not a sermon, but a recitation. The dust of Lomys' memory is kicked up and he recalls that this is a passage from The Seven-Pointed Star:

"And when Avelina went to her beloved, and lifted up the Strangers hood, so it was: she saw nothing. Her rage blinded her so that while her eyes could see, she could not. Although that monstrous face has taken the lives of all that came before and will take the lives of all that come after, Avelina could see only the faces of her mother, father, and sister. In exchange for poisoning her family's blood so that it would rot in their veins, Avelina offered her heart to her lover. And her lover, in his silence, accepted."

The Book of the Stranger, Lomys thinks to himself.

Why would an Aspect agree to such a bargain? Citlali asks herself, what is one human life to a being that strides across eons?

"I am a Poor Fellow, orphaned by mankind but not by the Seven," says the Poor Fellow, "but it's clear even to me that the parable of the prodigal daughter is a warning from the Seven above not only of the malicious stranger that stalks the innocent but also of the opportunistic foreigner, who seeks to advantage themselves from the disarray of Gods fearing people. I too have heard the rumors of the Dragon Queen of Essos, who commands Dothraki heathens and soulless eunuchs, but such threats cannot defeat the kings of Westeros or their folk, for we fight with the blessing of the Seven. The only weakness is that of treachery - of the one of us who sides with strange tempters - or temptresses - against their kin. And what happened to Avelina?"

Citlali shuffles her way through the crowd of people to the very front so that she must look up to see this older man's face. Standing on a rock to speak isn't necessary for him as he looks head and shoulders above the crowd but Citlali imagines the rock may be ceremonial.

"The Carrillions died wasting gurgling deaths but Avelina would take no pleasure in this. Her betrothal had changed her. A wedding requires consummation and being of flesh and blood Avelina could not treat with one such as the Stranger as she was. So the two lovers met halfway - the Stranger's body becoming more like that of one living and Avelina's more like that of one dead - but while the Stranger would return to the dark places of the world as he was, Avelina would forever remain living a half-life, her heart desiccated but still beating, her mind awake but numb. And although her eyes were left unscahed - and could still watch her family die - she could not."

The Poor Fellow bows his head. After a long pause he says:

"Seven's blessings to you."

A wave of murmurs responds: "And also to you."

The sermon must have assuaged people for it seems to Citlali that all those indigene who had not already given the old man a few coins came by to his bowl to give him some now. The old man, for his part, bows slightly every time he hears the clink of coin on coin and repeats: "Seven's blessings to you."

As the people bustle forward Citlali and Lomys fall back to avoid being pressed forward, at which point Citlali says:  
"Lomys, why do they give him coins?" asks Citlali.

"Well, he's a Poor Fellow," says Lomys, "the Gods smile on those who are kind to their servants."

"What does a God's smile do? Why would I want?" asks Citlali.

"It means like good fortune, or protection," says Lomys, "that sort of thing."

"So people give him coin," says Citlali, "to buy fortune and protection?"

"Y-yes," says Lomys, "I suppose so."

Citlali ponders this for a moment as she watches the indigene - who look rather rough themselves - dig deep in their raggedy pockets to find at least one or two copper coins.

[[Can you speak like he speaks?]] asks Citlali, [[about your gods' stories? If people would give you coins, then we could trade for food.]]

At the sound of her Atlajtoli people look around for the source of it and become suddenly aware of Citlali umber skin and raven black hair.

"We should speak in the Common Tongue," whispers Lomys to her. His eyes go from one onlooker to another as they glance back at this strange girl and her Westerosi companion.

Citlali, now becoming aware of the same thing, pulls her cloak around herself.

The Poor Fellow, despite his bowing, takes notice of her and the increasingly anxious smallfolk around her.

"A Stranger in our midst!" says the Poor Fellow.

At this all the smallfolk stop and look in the direction of his gaze. The smallfolk around Citlali and Lomys step away from them, alarmed. Citlali's strangeness cannot be denied in the clear light of day: skin of a shade that betrays her foreign origins, the jade stud under her lips that the Cuys allowed her to keep, the beginnings of tattoos that extend under the collar of her blouse. Her green eyes find the eyes of the people around her and Citlali sees in them a growing panic.

Lomys steps closer to her and, seeing the same panic, opens his mouth to speak when he's interrupted by the Poor Fellow.

"But not all Strangers are dangerous," says the Poor Fellow, "let us not forget that even the dragon lords had to be converted - Baelor the Blessed was not practicing the religion of his ancestors, but the true religion, the Faith of the Seven. He - or she - is not a Stranger if they wish communion with the Seven as One.

"Do you seek communion with the Seven, stranger?" asks the Poor Fellow.

Citlali looks at the old man for a moment then says: "I don't know."

"Do you wish to learn of them?" asks the Poor Fellow.

Citlali takes another pause.  
"It is always good to learn," she says.

The Poor Fellow laughs, which seems to give permission for the other smallfolk to smile and chuckle along. Citlali and Lomys glance around themselves, relieved to see the panic receding from people's faces.

As the last of the smallfolk give their alms the Poor Fellow steps off his speaking stone and approaches the Atlacal girl and the Westerosi boy.

"I must say," says the Poor Fellow, his eyes searching Citlali's face, "I don't believe I've ever seen one such as you here in Westeros."

"I am from far away," says Citlali.

Lomys looks from her to the Poor Fellow in panic, for paranoid fear that this Poor Fellow might now of their former position among the Cuy's collection. But of course, the old man has no clue just how honest Citlali is being.

"I imagine so," says the Poor Fellow. Then, after a moment:

"I am Leon Florent, Poor Fellow," says the Poor Fellow. He bows.

"Citlali of the Eleventh Flower Day," says Citlali, matching his bow but keeping her eye on him.

"Ah, Lomys," says Lomys, hurriedly following suit, "your holiness."

Leon laughs.

"No need for honorifics," he says, "I am only a man, same as you."

Lomys smiles and nods. Citlali looks at the the man the same she does every other Westerosi but Lomys is hesitant to look the Poor Fellow in the eye. The Florents are one of the oldest families in the Reach, descended from the dead Gardeners that built Highgarden. A Florent, even a fallen one, is owed some dutiful respect, Lomys thinks to himself.

"May I ask where you are headed?" asks Leon.

"Well…" begins Lomys. He looks to Citlali who looks as uncertain as he.

"I don't mean to pry. But one hears the rumors these days...," says Leon, "war in the North, Tyrell treachery, Dragon Queens."

Dragon. Citlali's heard this word many times now. The indigene word for Aspect, the great beasts infused with teotl that tower over men and women, range and rule over vast domains. Curious that in this land a woman can be said to be Queen of them.

"We go to find food, beds," says Citlali, "we have no money."

Leon opens his mouth to speak but is interrupted.

"Bandits," says Lomys, "bandits attacked us. They took everything."

Citlali nods in agreement.

"I'm sorry to hear that," says Leon, "I'm sure the Father will judge them justly."

"Thank you your- ah, thank you," says Lomys.

"Have you anywhere to go?" asks Leon.

"We-" begins Lomys.

"No," says Citlali.

"Hmm," says Leon.

The fallen Florent turns around and goes to pick up his bowl, now brimming with coins. The crowd has dispersed and the regular flow of the market begins anew, renewed by the return of the flock to the field.

"I can offer you refuge," says Leon, "I know of a septry that takes in the downtrodden and helps them on their way. But it is a place under the auspices of the Seven, and they will take only the faithful, or the new converts."

The Poor Fellow turns to Citlali. For her part Citlali looks back at him, unaware of what this means.

"Do you renounce your foreign religion, whatever it may be, and give yourself to the true faith of the Seven Pointed Star?" asks Leon.

Citlali thinks for a moment.

"What must I do," asks Citlali, "to give to the true faith?"

"Simply as I said," says Leon, "renounce any pagan gods and keep only the god of the Seven as One."  
Citlali laughs.

"I renounce all my gods," says Citlali, "but what is to keep the Seven as One?"  
"To keep it in your heart," says Leon, "to believe it true."  
Citlali laughs again. Leon seems pleased by this display but Lomys can hear the tone of her voice - it's not a laugh of joy but of one surprised by the absurd.

"I keep the Seven then," says Citlali, "where is to go for food?"

"Come along with me," says Leon Florent, "it is a ways out of Cuy, and we must make it there before sundown. As I'm afraid you already know, with the great houses at each other's throats, the bandits on the roads grow bold."


	12. Part 11

[Wheat, barley, grapes, apples, olives, citrus, and mutton were unknown in the New World until the Columbian Exchange.]

* * *

HOUSE FARWYND ACCEPTS A GIFT

Gyles Farwynd, as firstborn son and heir apparent of Lord Gylbert Farwynd, has the bedroom in the eastern turret of the Bulwark of Salt. The heir is meant to be gazing eastward toward the mainland and all the common enemies of the Ironborn that it is home to, to prepare himself for the day he takes command of House Farwynd's fleet. To this end the quarters contain only a single yawning window, with the east coast of Westeros in the far distance, an aperture wide enough for Gyles to be able to look north or south ino the infinite blue distances of the sea. All around that hewn stone opening he's placed maps and knives and swords and all the little trinkets he's gathered on his raids. The collection is meager - much below the stature of any true Ironborn Lord - but Gyles' father doesn't allow his son much opportunity to expand it. The old man says that the true fight is not against the mainlanders but against the Storm God, whose dark thundering envoys keep the men of the Iron Islands separate from the Land of the Dawn.

But not even the smallfolk really believe in that, Gyles thinks to himself.

Gyles sits in his bedroom admiring not the vast view but instead focusing on sharpening his favorite hand axe: a handle in the shape of a squid's head, the eyes right on the hilt, tentacles reaching up as if holding the blade aloft, all of it iron. Reef's Edge. So far it's claimed fifteen fingers - three hands - for Gyles in the finger dance. It's cost him none of his own.

And they let him go on saying it, Gyles thinks to himself. The Drowned Men are so few on the Lonely Light that they don't dare speak out against such obvious heresy - although the dead may never die, they cannot spread the words of the Drowned God if their throats are slit for insubordination. And his father has the love of the common islander, which, although it may come from smallfolk, is no small thing. Cowards, thinks Gyles, they would rather a cold watery death than a hot bloody one. How can they call themselves Ironborn if they would rather search for some impossible place instead of taking what's theirs from the prissy pagans on the mainland?

The sun is low in the sky and his father will soon send for him. For his brothers too. They had it out again just yesterday, at this same time of the afternoon, over Gyles' demand that he be allowed to join Euron Greyjoy's fleet. A raven had just returned announcing the success of Euron's parley with Cersei Lannister, now Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and of her conscription of the Golden Company. All of them are now united against Daenerys Targaryen, the Stormborn, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains - she who, it is said, had burned Victarion Greyjoy alive. According to the raven, Euron calls for all of those Ironborn left on the Iron Islands to rally to him, so that they might defeat the Dragon Queen and the rebellious Lords of the Seven Kingdoms in one fell swoop. Gyles wanted to follow his Lord Reaper's orders but Lord Farwynd hedged - the Lonely Light had suffered a blow from the Storm God only a few days back and what ships survived were to be dedicated to fishing and whaling.

A thrall comes to inform Gyles that his father requests his presence in the solar. Gyles takes Reef's Edge with him, keeping it on his waist belt.

The Lord's solar of the Bulwark of Salt is at the west end of the castle, facing out toward the endless blue expanse of the Sunset Sea. The throne - an elaborate assortment of driftwood, each piece carved with glyphs describing the history of the Drowned God - sits with it's back to a vast window that frames the ocean. There sits Lord Gylbert Farwynd, clean shaven, with hair of black and white, and dark eyes flecked with different colors that appear to change depending on where he sets his gaze. On either side of him are banners with the emblem of House Farwynd: a black ship atop a black sea, a setting red sun against an orange sky. Ygon, tall, lanky, and of short dark hair, and Yohn, stout, ruddy, and of long of dark hair, are already there in the solar standing before their father. Little Grygory Farwynd is there too, behind House Farwynd's driftwood throne, gazing out the vast window, lost in thought. Out of all of them, it's little Grygory who most resembles Lord Farwynd, in both manner and appearance. Besides Gyles, Grygory is the only other Farwynd son to have inherited the dark eyes flecked with colors of Gylbert Farwynd.

Gyles for his part took after his mother, Gwyndolyn. His face is a shadow of his mother's fair pretty one, worn down in places by the hardships of manhood and a scar that cuts across the left side of his forehead and into his hair, which he highlights by keeping his head close cropped.

As he steps before his father Gyles bows. Lord Farwynd nods his head to acknowledge him.

"My sons," he says, "I wanted to speak to you all, as I've now had time to think over the Greyjoy's summons."

"Will you be letting us go?" asks Gyles, half serious, half mockingly.

"Yes," says Lord Farwynd.

Gyles opens his mouth to issue sarcasm but stops just short. Ygon and Yohn's faces take on the rictus of surprise. Even little Grygory turns his head slightly to hear his father better.

"You…" begins Gyles.

"Euron Greyjoy is Lord Reaper of the Iron Islands, his word is law," says Lord Farwynd, "if he now calls House Farwynd to him, then House Farwynd is honor bound to answer the call."

His own attempt at sarcasm failed Gyles looks for it's rebuttal in his father's face, but old Lord Farwynd is genuine. Gyles turns to his brothers: Ygon's face droops at the edges while Yohn's face lifts in tentative joy. Little Grygory Farwynd must already have been told for the boy doesn't react.

"But House Farwynd must also pay some mind to its own survival," says Lord Farwynd, "we cannot send all of our ships, nor all of our men."

"But the Greyjoy made the call!" shrieks Yohn.

"We owe the Lord Reaper what he asks," adds Gyles.

"But," says Ygon, "all of our ships?"

"There must be enough ships and men to feed the Lonely Light and clothe it in leathers," says Lord Farwynd, "otherwise we'll have nowhere to bring back our plunder."

"But we don't need all so many!" says Yohn, "more than half can sail to for Euron's Fleet."  
"Easily," says Gyles.

"Yes," says Lord Farwynd with something that is not unlike sadness, "more than half."

"I will lead the fleet father," says Gyles, "in your name."

"I would expect nothing less," says Lord Farwynd. Turning to his other two sons he says, "I would ask that one of you stay to help command the fishing fleet. The other may sail with Gyles."

"I will go!" says Yohn. He raises his arm, almost jumping up as he does so.

"Then Ygon will stay," says Lord Farwynd.

Ygon, for his part, says nothing.

"You may choose as many as you would wish from amongst our best fighting men and our finest ships, what few of them are left. The fishing ships stay, not that you would want them," says Lord Farwynd, "You may take food enough for three months. You may take the family armor. And you must swear something to me."

"Name it," says Gyles.

"Keep whatever the plunder. But you seize any carrack you set your eyes on and bring it back to me in one piece. As long as there carracks being sent to the Lonely Light, you are free to reave for as long as you desire."

"I swear it father," says Gyles, "any carrack we come across is yours."

Lord Farwynd nods.

"You may go," he says, "I will not detain you further from the call."

* * *

Although the Red Wynd is a fine fast ship, matched in speed by the other six ships of Gyle's fleet, they don't have the supplies to make it all the way to King's Landing in one go. The plan is to sail for the Arbor, reave what Euron's fleet had left behind and then push east toward the Narrow Sea. If necessary they can reave the villages along the edges of the Reach or Dorne, realms which have their leading families tied up in the machinations of the Queen of the Iron Throne and the Queen of Dragons and who will not be keeping a careful eye on their southern coasts.

The wind is strong and bracing, cooled by the night, not yet warmed by the morning sun. Gyles stands at the helm of the Red Wynd, keeping her on course. He put able men at the heads of the other ship in his fleet, but Gyles kept all the best fighters for his own crew: Thaen the Knifefish, a wiry young man with an unrivaled skill with the short blade; Old Man Ulrik, one of the few common ironborn to have reached the age when grey creeps in the hair, a feat in and of itself; Hargreiv the Goodbrother of Orkmont, childhood friend of Gyles and a deadeye with a bow; Dead Thistle, the pale woman with a hollow look that is said to have the favor of the Drowned God; and a thrall of Hargreiv, a dark skinned former Essosi slave known only as Ghor.

"Land!" cries the man in the crow's nest.

The Arbor, Gyles thinks to himself.

He peers out and spots it - only a dark dot in the distance now, but the wind is blowing favorably. It won't be too long until they make landfall. The crew and the hands all go to the Red Wynd's rails, staring out toward direction the man in the crow's nest pointed out. All save for Yohn, who approaches Gyles now.

His younger brother by four years, Yohn never inspired much fraternal feeling in Gyles. Portly, pale, round faced, and with a shrill quality that Gyles doesn't see in his father and never saw in his mother, Yohn was the youngest of the Farwynds until Grygory was born. As a child Yohn would beg to be invited to play the older boy games with Gyles and Ygon - back when Ygon still had salt to him. When they wouldn't let him Yohn would go crying to their father. He should have let Yohn sort it out himself but Gylbert Farwynd couldn't bear to see a son, no matter how pathetic, suffer.

"Brother," says Yohn, "we've not discussed the plan of attack-"

"We'll make landfall and take whatever the Greyjoy have left behind," says Gyles. He doesn't look to his brother as he speaks. "That is the plan of attack."

"But what if we should meet resistance-"

"Then we'll cut them down where they stand," says Gyles, "then take whatever the Greyjoy have left behind."

"No I meant if at sea-"

"We run them down, board their ships, cut them down where they stand, then take whatever the Greyjoy have left behind."

Gyles gives him a look and Yohn makes the same face he used to make right before he would run off to cry to father.

But father isn't here, thinks Gyles to himself, and on my ship my word is law.

"Yes captain," says Yohn. He bows his head.

The younger Farwynd heads back down to the main deck and then into his quarters. Gyles wishes it would be to practice his axe skills but he knows it will be to brood. Moody Yohn, thinks Gyles to himself, father's gold won't buy you any lemon-squid out here. Out here we pay for our things as all true islanders do - with the iron price.

As the Red Wynd approaches the Arbor the crew notices large carracks of a curious make, down along the far end the island. With the wind at his fleet's back Gyles knows those ships are dead in the water without a serious crew of rowmen - assuming they don't simply rely on their sails like most carracks. What if we should meet resistance - Yohn's words wander back into Gyles' mind. Perhaps we ought to have planned something, Gyles thinks to himself. But such is the oddness of those foreign vessels that Gyles finds himself in a kind of disbelief. Indeed when he firsts spots them he imagines they might be some mirage, some curious trick of light. The strange yellowed wood, the sails of pale green and deep red, the triangular flags - they're unlike anything else he's seen at sea or heard of in any sailor's story. He decides that they are merchant ships, looking to trade with what heathens remain on the island. Probably trying to buy up whatever Arbor gold is still left.

The Farwynd fleet of seven ships approaches the shore and the Red Wynd comes aground near the broken dock of a small seaside town. The doors and the windows of the wooden buildings are all broken, the streets are all empty, and at the edges of everything there is the green of nature taking back what men took. Gyles and his crew walk through the ruins and turning over empty crates and barrels in search of any thing that might be useful but they find nothing.

"The Greyjoy were thorough," says Old Man Ulrick.

"Not even a soul left to rework the fields," says Hargreiv the Goodbrother, "bad form. You have to leave at least a few so that you might have something to reave in the future."

"Probably just abandoned," says Gyles, "probably imagined more Ironborn were coming."

"Well they were right!" says Yohn.

"There must be a source of water nearby, that the town pulled from" says Thaen, "we can refill our stores at the very least."

"Tell the other ships to float down coast and report back what they find," says Gyles, "we'll go further inland. Dead Thistle-"

"Milord," says Dead Thistle, "we're not alone."

"What?"  
"Don't look around," says Dead Thistle, "I think they're watching us."

Gyles looks at her now, standing at the rickety doorway of an abandoned him, staring at the ground with wide eyes.

"Where?" asks Yohn.

Gyles looks to him, and watches his head swivel about like a bird's.

Flit, flit, flit.

Three arrows pierce the ground before his feet.

"Cover!" shouts Gyles, "now!"

The crew scramble toward the abandoned homes as a full volley comes through. The ground and the wooden walls come alive with the sharp thuds of arrows hitting their mark and Thaen the Knifefish catches an arrow in his leg. Old Man Ulrick drags him the last way inside a crooked doorway as another full volley comes rainging down. Hargreiv the Goodbrother, now against a wall, nocks an arrow, but his eyes can't find anything to point it at among all the green. His thrall Ghor is in the building he's next to, his shield up to his eyes, taking a peak out a crooked window.

Gyles hops through a window and takes cover. He readies Reef's Edge to throw in his right hand as he reaches for the window with his left, but like Hargreiv he sees only the golden green wash of leaves, latticed by branches and tree trunks.

"They have you surrounded!" cries a voice from somewhere in the forest. It sounds like that of an old man, a voice strained by the years, "If you surrender, you will be allowed to live, if you so choose. They warn that they have plenty of arrows."

They? thinks Gyles to himself, who is they?

"We are Ironborn!" shouts Yohn from another building, "we gladly pay the iron price!"

At that Gyles hears chatter in a strange sing song language:

[[What are they saying?]]

[[they are Ironborn-]]

[[Squid men?]]

[[Yes, squid men.]]

"Captain!," whispers Hargreiv the Goodbrother, "your orders?"

"They are thirty archers strong with twice that many fighters," says the old man's voice again, "and they know you've less than that."

"How do we know any of that is true?" shouts Gyles. Should have rushed in while this old man was talking, thinks Gyles to himself. But what is that language? Why are there foreigners on the Arbor?

[[They don't believe me-]]

Another volley of arrows is loosed. The crew hides behind cover that becomes porcupined with arrows.

Certainly looks like thirty arrows, Gyles thinks to himself.

"They have reinforcements on the way," says the old man in the forest, "they saw your fleet coming."

"Then why not just kill us?" asks Gyles.

"They want to talk," says the old man.

"Talk is cheap!" cries Yohn. The younger Farwynd steps into the clear and launches a hand axe into the brush. Just as the axe leaps into the sky four arrows fly out of the forest, three striking Yohn in the shoulder, the stomach, and the arm.

"Hold!" shouts Gyles, "Hold!"

Gyles looks over to Yohn, who slumps back against the wall, scrambling to steady himself with his good arm, his eyes wide. As he staggers back behind cover his head turns shakily toward Gyles. The iron price.

"How do we know you won't just kill us all?" asks Gyles.

"Do you really have any other choice?" asks the old man.

Gyles looks out toward his crew. If what they say is true they could crush them here and then raid the Red Wynd before the other ships have time to respond. So he motions to his men and holsters Reef's Edge in his belt. They follow suite, sheathing their weapons and stepping tentatively out from behind cover.

"Alright," says Gyles, "let's talk."

Out of the brush come all the human figures the old man mentioned. Archers step forward, their arrows nocked, bows pointed downward but in a position to lift, aim, and fire. To Gyles' surprise the archers are all women - brown of skin and black of hair, a few with tattoos visible on their arms, many with piercings along their lips or eyebrows. Their armor looks to be leather - green and red - bearing patterns of a style Gyles has never seen before. Their abdomens, legs and arms are protected by this leather and they wear sturdy sandals of a kind not unlike the Essosi. Their jewelry, pierced into their bodies, is gold or silver in a slight delicate style of some impossible religion. The archers make themselves clear and then stop. From behind them the fighters arrive - men brown of skin and black of hair like the women, in chunkier versions of that same strange leather armor, with cotton shoulder vestments, embroidered, clean, and bearing feathers. Their round wooden shields also bear feathers, their faces adorned with geodesic designs - in bright green or sharp red or light blues or sunny yellows - that match their vestments. At their sides they carry weapons unlike anything Gyles has ever seen before. Swords like great angular wooden oars, big enough to wield in two hands, with shining black dragonglass set all around the edges of it to form the 'blade' - all of it inscribed with foreign iconography. Gruesome and glorious at once.

Just behind them comes the old man who Gyles imagines must have been speaking earlier. His pale Westerosi complexion stands out against all the darker skinned foreigners, and his tattered gray rags mark him as one of the heathen mainland religion. Just behind him walks a woman dressed in crimson red leather, with feathers of red and black and mottled brown, and a headdress in the same colors that, on it's very front, bears the top half of a human skull. She wields an axe of an angular design, with a head made of obsidian. Her lips are painted the same shining black as the axe and she uses them to say:

[[Hello, squid men.]]

Gyles' gaze meets hers and he notices that her eyes are of a dark orange speckled with red.

"The Atlacal says hello," says the old man.

"...Hello," says Gyles.

[[Tell them that I am Mayahuel, general of this regiment, charged with defending the northern end of the Place of Berries, and that they are trespassing,]] says the women with the obsidian axe.

The old man does so.

"The Place of Berries?" asks Gyles, "this isn't the Arbor?"

"It is my friend," says the old man, "but the foreigners have chosen to rename it."

"What of Euron Greyjoy and the Ironfleet?" asks Gyles.

"They arrived first-"

[[You! Keep translating!]] says Mayahuel.

[[They ask about their fellow squid men fleet,]] says the old man.

[[The ones who went eastward? Hmph. These are a bit late for all of that,]] says Mayahuel. Looking at Gyle she says, [[What is your name?]]

She motions for the old man to translate once more and in this way the Atlacal general speaks with the Ironborn captain.

"I am Gyles Farwynd, son of Lord Gylbert Farwynd, of the Lonely Light."

[[Well Gyles,]] says Mayahuel, [[your fellow squid men left. You're out here all on your own.]]

"On our own?" asks Gyles, more to himself than anyone.

[[I'm afraid so,]] says Mayahuel, [[and unless you have more than your seven ships hidden over the horizon, I imagine our twenty eight will do just fine, once the wind turns.]]

"There were only two ships out along the coast," says Gyles.

[[The world is made of many illusions,]] says Mayahuel. She smiles.

"I suppose it is" says Gyles. Then: "So. What is the punishment for trespassing?"

[[There are many options. But the oracle-speaker made a request of the Jade and Jasper,]] says Mayahuel, [[who in turn gave an order to me. Trespassers are to be taken to her, alive.]]

"Why?" asks Gyles.

[[ I don't know,]] says Mayahuel, [[the oracle-speakers of the south ask for such strange things.]]

"And if we refuse?"

[[You will be taken to her dead.]]

Gyles look to the rest of his crew. Thaen and Ulrick don't take their eyes off the archer's knocked arrows. Hargreiv can't take his eyes off of Mayahuel. Ghor and Dead Thistle peer out around them, watching for more of these strange fighters to appear from out of the brush. Yohn's eyes only look in panic at his brother. What does he say to him? The only words an ironborn could possibly say, no matter how hard they may be to summon.

"What is dead may never die," says Gyles.

[[What is dead may never die,]] says Mayahuel. She laughs.

[[They told me about your kind, Gyles the Farwynd. The indigene too proud to serve. The warriors who sail the eastern seas in the name of their squid Aspect. Your kind are not like these other indigene, who will not give their blood to the earth nor their teotl to the sun.]]

Gyles gives her a confused look. The old man does not translate teotl, merely transplants it amongst the Common Tongue, and the word sticks out.

[[Luckily for you the Jade and Jasper have given me permission to make special compensations,]] says Mayahuel.

"...Compensations?" asks Gyles.

[[Things that you may want,]] says Mayahuel.

A vague air of hope takes hold of the Ironborn crew. Behind him in the distance Gyles hears the rough wooden grinding noise of a boat coming ashore and the splashing of of boots against surf amongst the waves. The second raiding party approaches.

"We left home to reave," says Gyles.

[[And you may still do so,]] says Mayahuel, [[so long as you do so in the name of Tlon.]]

"He is your king?" asks Gyles.

[[Yes,]] says Mayahuel, [[And he is just. The Tlon does not punish ignorance with death. If you swear fealty to him - to us - you can still reave. But we decide who is reaved.]]

"You killed my brother," says Gyles.

[[I can still see him drawing breathe,]] says Mayahuel, [[and we can make sure he keeps doing so.]]

At her signal another form appears from out of the brush, an older woman, with graying hair, dressed in dark crimson robes and embroidered with intricate iconography in green, yellow, and purple. Her hair is wrapped back in one braid and there are three ivory white studs under her lower lip.

[[Bring him here and she can save him,]] says Mayahuel.

Yohn lifts himself up and leans out from the wooden corner of the house where he's taken refuge. He looks at Gyles, to this old woman, then back to Gyles.

"Brother," he mutters.

"Thaen! Ghor!", shouts Gyles, "bring my brother out to this woman."

The two ironborn shuffle a few steps, their eyes still watching the feathered warriors, and when no attack comes they rush to the side of the younger Farwynd.

"Hargreiv," says Gyles, "tell the others to stand down."

Hargreiv nods and turns to meet the crew, his face in blank shock.

Yohn groans as Thaen and Ghor grab him and carry him over to the Atlacal line. The two slowdown as they get within striking distance of the feathered warriors but none lift their swords or shields. Mayahuel motions for them to place Yohn on the ground and then shoos them back with a few flicks of her wrist.

The woman in crimson kneels beside Yohn as the latter stares with fearful eyes at the former. She places her hand around the arrow sticking out of Yohns stomach and with one swift movement rips it out, tearing some of the flesh in the process. Yohn shrieks in agony but the woman in crimson is unmoved. Without hesitation she does the same with the arrows sticking out of his shoulder and leg, blood bursting out with both pulls.

"BROTHER!" cries Yohn.

The arrows were always going to have to come out, thinks Gyles to himself.

"That won't save him," says Gyles.

Mayahuel says nothing. She just motions to the woman.

Once the arrows are out the woman in crimson sits beside Yohn, crossing her legs and extending her arms out over Yohn's body, her fingers separate and loose, like those of a puppet master. She closes her eyes.

A few moments pass - a bird chirps in the distance.

"What-" begins Gyles.

[[Tsst!]] hisses Mayahuel. She flicks her hand again and points to Yohn

Gyles looks at his little brother laying on the ground, still shaking from having the arrows ripped out of him. Blood should be spilling over in rivulets from his wounds but as Gyles notices now the blood holds in place. His shoulder wound is ragged but still, his stomach, where he has his hands placed to staunch the bleeding, no longer oozes red. Yohn doesn't appear to have noticed this for as his sense returns to him he recoils from the woman's outstretched hands.

[[Tell him to be still,]] says Mayahuel to the old Septon.

The Septon does so.

Another few moments and something unbelievable happens: the globules and rivulets of Yohn's spilled blood rise up into the air from off the ground or his person, like dust roused by a slow gust of wind. Higher and higher the blood rises, stopping to float just above the hands of the woman in crimson, swaying slightly with the gentle breeze in the air.

The Ironborn all watch with mouths agape. Mayahuel smiles.

"Blood magic," whispers Gyles to himself.

The woman in crimson furrows her brows and the blood begins to funnel itself back down to the wounds that it originated from, pouring slowly down like honey, disappearing back into the body of the younger Farwynd. As more of it returns to him the flesh of his body stitches itself back together, leaving behind a dark wine colored scar of a rough, crisscrossed texture.

Once it's done the woman retracts her hands and gives a nod of the head.

[[Rise, squid man,]] says Mayahuel.

Yohn looks from the woman in crimson to Mayahuel, then down to his scars. He feels the flesh of each one. Shocked, relieved, and more confident now, he gets his feet under him. Gives his once wounded shoulder an experimental rotation. The woman in crimson rises to her feet now and turns back to her mistress.

[[Swear fealty to the Tlon,]] says Mayahuel, [[and what is dead may truly never have to die.]]


	13. Part 12

[In Nahua culture, where one's soul went after death depended on how one died, not on what one did in one's life. To die in battle or sacrifice meant one's soul went east to help the rising sun. Death in childbirth sent one's soul west, to help the sun set. Death by natural disasters such as hurricanes or earthquakes sent one's soul south to help the aspects of nature. All other deaths sent one's soul north, to a gray limbo.]

* * *

PRISONERS AT THE PLACE OF PALE STONE

The battle is won by dusk and at night the Blades go room to room in the great Pale Stone Castle, the one the indigene call Starfall, to clear the fortress. Nochtli hears the sounds of his fellows, their wooden sandals clacking against stone floors, their Atlajtoli voices demanding surrender and the Common Tongue of the indigene responding with cries of mercy. Every now and again a high shriek is cut suddenly short, it's echo haunting the halls for a few moments longer.

With the rest of the castle being covered by his compatriots, Nochtli need only hold his ground until the rest of the Blades come to help him escort his captives.

He looks over to his captives now. The indigene woman dressed in purple, skin paler than most any other indigene, hair blacker than night, eyes the color of violets, huddles in the corner of the room. At her side she keeps close a boy, eleven or twelve, that has the indigene trait that produces straw colored hair. Before them, having failed to protect them, lies the corpse of the dark skinned indigene, his armor dented where Nochtli struck him. By the way the woman in purple's lips quivered at the sight of the dead man and by the long look she gives his corpse throughout the night, Nochtli can tell she knew him. His death is likely what compelled her to wield the sword.

The sword. That's what Nochtli keeps at his own side. Long, thin, and a fraction of the weight of an iron sword, the white blade of this indigene weapon seems to glow, like when the sun shines from behind thick clouds. The edge is as sharp, if not sharper, than the obsidian edges of a macuahuitl and Nochtli cuts himself the first time he tests it with his finger. Although his sheen-obsidian mace might still serve - it only needs to hold together instead of hold an edge - Nochtli takes the indigene sword in his main hand as his main weapon. He asked the name of it to the woman, after he'd taken it from her and after he'd made it clear they were not to leave the treasury without his permission, but she doesn't speak Atlajtoli, and Nochtli's Common Tongue is too poor to understand her response. In his mind he names the sword the Crystal Feather, for it reminds him of the stories of the Crystal-Feathered Serpent, the Cunning and Clever, Aspect of the Air.

The moon shines all through the night. With a bit of tinder Nochtli lights a few of the candles around the treasury room. The faces of his captives flicker with shadows in the orange light, and the books and assorted jewelry cast large shadows. After a short time the boy gives in to dream, but the woman only stares at Nochtli with a look of angry resolve, refusing sleep. So Nochtli, bound to hold his position for the Blades and keep his captives from escaping, refuses sleep as well.

Nochtli doesn't mind it so much. The rush of battle is still thick in his blood and he doesn't imagine he could sleep even if he wanted to. The visceral memory of the battle, bold and sharp in his mind, keeps him on high alert. However, as the minutes turn to hours this feeling gives way to cold contemplation. His training as a Blade has helped prepare him for sights of blood but to cut the life of another down stirs something within the inner darkness of one's soul, something empty and dreadful. It stirs in Nochtli now as he watches the woman in purple look from her dead friend, to the Crystal Feather, to Nochtli, and then finally to the child. It's an ugly thing that the Blades do. And until he returns to Ayamictlan, to his little town along the warm bay coast, Nochtli is a Blade.

It's not until early the next morning that a patrol comes to relieve Nochtli. When they arrive in the far end of the hall Nochtli hears their foosteps echo against the stone walls. After a moment his compatriots cry out:  
[[We've come to clear the rooms! If there are any Blades living, let them speak out now!]]

[[Here!]] shouts Nochtli. The woman in purple pulls the straw haired boy closer to herself at the sound of this foreign tongue. For his part the boy rouses from his sleep, his bleary eyes darting here and there.

[[Is the way clear?]] shout the other Blades

[[Yes,]] shouts Nochtli, [[it's only I, Nochtli of the Fifth Snake Day, and my captives. This is the end of this part of the castle.]]

After a few moments his compatriots arrive in their war torn salt armor, the feathers on their shields mangled and bent, their armor splattered with blood. At their arrival Nochtli stands at attention and points to the indigene woman and child huddling in the corner of the treasury room. The eyes of his compatriots however, wander elsewhere, to gaze upon the various portraits, vases, and fine chests that make up the treasury. After a few moments all of them come to focus on the Crystal Feather.

[[There, just the two of them,]] says Nochtli, [[I killed this one here on the floor,]] he points to the body of the dark skinned indigene, [[and held these captive here.]]

[[And that sword?]] asks one of the patrol, one of the later Blades who came with the Jade and Jasper. Nochtli doesn't recognize him. He's a young darker skinned man from the Sun's Archipelago.

[[I took it from her after besting her in combat,]] says Nochtli, [[it's mine by the Harbinger's Rite.]]

The patrol looks from Nochtli to the highborn woman to Nochtli again. They twist their faces in doubt. This womain in a fancy purple dress? A fighter?

"You fight me?" asks Nochtli now of the woman in purple, "you fight me when battle?"

The woman in purple looks at him, her eyes narrowing down to slits.

"Yes," hisses the woman.

[[You see?]] asks Nochtli.

[[Is that their word for it? "Yes"?]] asks the Blade of the Sun's Archipelago..

The others nod or murmur that yes, indeed it is.

[[Your captain might not see it as a proper execution of the Rite,]] says another of the patrol, an older man of green eyes.

[[My captain died in the fighting,]] says Nochtli.

[[Noble is his sacrifice,]] says the older man.

Nochtli and the Blades all lower their heads for a moment.

[[But someone higher up might not see it that way either,]] says the older man.

[[Let's go and get these captives to the courtyard,]] says another of the patrol, a shorter man with features that place him closer to Hinojovo than the Ephemeral City, [[Commander Ikal has ordered the priests to prepare an altar and the captives are to be gathered together to receive the offer. He wants all the dead to be dead by nightfall, so we can get to refortifying in case the deer-riders return.]]

[[Horses,]] says Nochtli, [[they call them horses.]]

[[Yes. Before the horse riders return]]

It doesn't take much to get the woman in purple to comply. As soon as the Blades go to pull her along she stands and keeps the boy close behind her, away from their hands, and goes where they direct her. Nochtli follows close behind.

He doesn't want the woman or the boy or the blade. He'd give them up if need be. Blades that surrender their spoils to the Tlon are seen as generous and selfless, sometimes so much so that the length of their service is reconsidered. And the better the spoils the more generous they seem. These won't help me get back tomorrow, thinks Nochtli to himself, but they're a good start. The Crystal Feather is awe inspiring, the woman in purple is beautiful, and the boy would make a fine addition to the order of the Red Salamander. Useful, yes, but those things would only be true if Nochtli survived the rest of his service. And whether or not Nochtli survives rests on the strategic decisions of the Jade and Jasper.

I could desert, thinks Nochtli to himself. But instantly he dismisses the notion. How could he survive in this foreign land? Nochtli doesn't know which fruits are sweet and which are poisonous, doesn't have anything to trade with, and knows only bits and pieces of the indigene's Common Tongue. If the rest of the Triple Alliance's forces don't find him and execute him for desertion the natives might kill him in the name of their Seven Pointed "God".

The clack of wooden sandal against stone rings out as the party makes their way down staircases and through hallways. The purple banners with the white sword and star are torn as they hang or lay on the ground. As they pass through the halls Nochtli can see through the doorframes into rooms of overturned tables, shattered chairs, and the occasional corpse. As he passes by windows he looks out and sees the pale stone walls of the fortress ramparts and the inner courtyard where the growing crowd of captives is being herded.

Right up against the outer castle walls he sees the modest altar that the blood priests have cobbled together from broken pieces of the wall. With more onlookers and more captives to sacrifice, the blood priests have made an effort to make more proper sacrifices. The base pyramid is not so hard to create but the steps leading up it are rough and crooked. The altar itself is simply one rectangular stone standing up with another laid on top where the sacrifice will lie, behind which stands Ehecatl the head priest. Behind him stand five others, dressed in the traditional crimson with feathers of black and white and red. At his side stands a Blade with macuahuitl at the ready to decapitate those who will give their service to the Sun. Near the altar the more devout among the expedition - Atlacal dressed in the reds, blues, greens, and yellows of their Art - stomp their feet and chant in low voices the Hummingbird's Hymn. The indigene captives don't know what to make of this, and they seem to pace back and forth in confusion. But of course they wouldn't, thinks Nochtli to himself. Even in Ayamictlan the captives from Hinojovo or Iwaniku, who know of the Sun's hunger, must be reminded of their duties before their final service - how could these indigene possibly manage? Even if the expedition could speak across the language barrier, doubtful that the indigene would remember all the songs and dances, and doubtful still that anyone of the expedition want unbelieving indigene to hear their heartfelt petitions.

Commander Ikal had said that these indigene are not like the squid men, that they will give themselves to servitude once they've been shown teotl. That they shouldn't be overburdened with duties so that they might not be confused as to what they're being offered. Nochtli looks to the woman in purple now. She walks with a noble's haughty poise, head held high despite the fact that she's a prisoner.

She fought me to the last, thinks Nochtli to himself, she'll not be confused about what's being offered to her.

But then he looks at the boy. Much too young. He'll be taken by the blood priests as a ward of the Tlon, to be trained in the art of the Red Salamander, He of the Undying River.

Would she enter servitude to stay at his side? Nochtli wonders to himself.

By the time Nochtli and the patrol make it through the final archway out into the courtyard the blood priests have already begun. The chanting of the Atlacal grows quieter and the indigene chatter in fear.

[[She Who Brings Light to Humanity,]] says the Ehecatl atop the pyramid and behind the altar, speaking up as if to the sky, [[let us appease you with this sacrifice, in gratitude for incandescence, to lengthen the days, and to aid in the wars to come.]]

The first indigene to be sacrificed is a woman, yellow of hair, her hands bound, escorted up by two Blades. Her head darts from the altar to the crowd. There she sees Blades and indigene captives, along with the devout Atlacal chanting their low chant. Although the yellow haired woman shakes like a leaf she doesn't resist as the two Blades that are her escort lift her by the arms and legs and lay her down face up on the pale stone altar.

[[Indigene! Selfless and humble, your blood renews the world, from age to age,]] says the Ehecatl. He speaks with an orator's boom, his voice echoing across the courtyard and above the low din of activity, the black, red, and brown, feathers of his religious garb quivering slightly with the effort. The blood priest Ehecatl then grasps an obsidian dagger in both hands high above his head.

[[Thanks be to you,]] he says.

The knife comes down in a flash of shining black and the woman scarcely has time to gasp as the priest slashes her open and wrenches out her still beating heart. The Blade at Ehecatl's side swings down his macuahuitl and decapitates the woman, her head rolling down the steps of the pale makeshift pyramid, in recreation of the first man sacrificed by the Four Siblings. The Atlacal lift their weapons or tools and cry out in commendation. The indigene flinch and cry out in horror.

Nochtli takes note of the highborn woman and the boy as they watch this. Both of them look on with a wide eyed fear. They and the Blade escort head around the back of the crowd to where the other captives are being held behind a line of Blades at the ready.

[[This need not be your fate indigene,]] says Ehecatl, directing his voice to the small crowd of captive indigene. All of them now begin to twitch and shudder nervously. The blood priest motions to one of their holy men, a Septon, to urge him to translate his words.

[[Your compatriot chose sacrifice,]] says Ehecatl, [[but the Tlon does not demand death for ignorance. Service in the name of Our Rotted Lord, He of the Ivory Mask, and Emperor of the Place of Reeds is rewarded with shelter, sustenance, and the secrets of teotl.]]

Once this is relayed to the captives the blood priest raises up the heart and shuts his eyes in concentration.

Just as before on the coast, the priest suspends the motion of the flesh and the blood and converts the viscera to smoke, dissolving the heart into the air itself. At this the Atlacal bow their heads in reverence and the indigene look on in terrified awe.

The next indigene captive in the line is a young man, seemingly lowborn by his simple clothes. Nochtli watches in the distance as two Blades march him up to a blue-cloaked Needle so that he may be made the offer. At the Needle's side is a girl, no more than two and twelve, who serves as his translator. Nochtli can't hear them as they speak but by the way the young man looks to the altar and then back at the Needle and his young translator he knows the offer has been made. The young man lowers his head and after a moment he's pulled away from the altar by the Blade escorts. They march him to the far side of the courtyard, on toward the other side of the castle, presumably where his feet will be bound and the Hammers will instruct him on what his labor will be.

In this way the all the captives are dealt with. Nochtli finds it fascinating to see which people choose sacrifice and which choose service. As Commander Ikal predicted, these indigene are not as hard or as proud as the squid men. Most of them give themselves to serving the Tlon, which is good, as their labor will be needed to fortify the castle and feed the Triple Alliance's forces.

Those that choose sacrifice are few and far between. An old woman, so wrinkled that her eyes are barely visible, gray haired and shaky of footsteps, chooses sacrifice with her head held high. Not so surprising, thinks Nochtli to himself, better to be sacrificed and have one's spirit head east to help the Sun rise than to die of old age and head north to the Gray Wastes. But there are others too: a young man, straw-haired, not much older than the Needle's translator, chooses sacrifice without hesitation. He looks hard at the audience of Atlacal, stares into the eyes of the blood priest who will sacrifice him. When they lay him on the pale stone altar he looks into the sky and mutters something, likely a prayer for his Seven Pointed God. A young woman, brown haired and pale skinned in a flowing blue dress, trembles all the way up. As they lay her on the altar she shuts her eyes in fear, expecting the pain. There is little of that of course. None of those sacrificed to the Sun cry out in agony. Such is the skill of some priests, such as Ehecatl at the altar, that they can remove one's heart in the moment between beats.

Nochtli follows the woman in purple and the straw haired boy as they move up the line from the outside of the Blade's formation. There's no way the woman would leave the boy now, not if she'd so protective of him, he thinks to himself. The boy must be her brother, or perhaps her son. Strange that they don't share the same hair color, but perhaps that's simply the way things are in Westeros.

When the two finally arrive at the head of the line the Needle looks upon them. He's a man with a shaved head, tattooed on the left side with the rising sun and on the right with a moon and stars. He wears with the traditional blue cloak of the Needles, his demeanor is calm and official.

[[This one is too young,]] says the Needle as he motions to the boy, [[take him with the other children.]]

One of the Blades goes to take the boy away but Allyria grabs on to him and resists.

[[Tell her the boy will be spared,]] says the Needle to his young translator, [[he is too young to receive the offer.]]

Nochtli isn't sure the the translator hears him for girl stares up in unbroken amazement at the woman in purple.

"Lady Dayne," she says and gives a curious bow, holding on to the edges of her tattered dress.

[[That was not a translation of what I said,]] says the Needle.

"Milady," says the girl, "they say that Lord Dayne will be spared. The children are taken away - they live."

This gives Lady Dayne pause.

"Taken away?" she asks.

"Sometimes to a Needle like him," says the girl. She points to the Needle by her side, who nods. "Sometimes to the ones they call blood priests."

"The Lord of Starfall will not follow pagan gods," says Lady Dayne.

[[She does not want the boy to go,]] says the girl to the Needle.

[[Tell her that there isn't anything to be done about it,]] says the Needle, [[not even her captor has a say in it.]]

I don't get a say in it? Asks Nochtli to himself.

"Edric will-" begins Lady Dayne, stopping as she looks over to the altar, "I will-"

"Milady, they say there is choice with Lord Edric," says the girl, "but you still have a choice."

"What is my choice?" asks Lady Dayne.

"You can serve them," says the girl, "or they take you to the altar. The choice is yours."

"And Lord Edric gets no choice?" asks Lady Dayne, "he has to serve?"

"They tell us that at sixteen years they will let us go free," says the girl.

"A lie," says Lady Dayne. She glares at the Needle.

"No lie," says the Needle, "truth."

She looks at the boy, this Lord Edric, for a long moment.

[[What do you choose indigene?]] says the Needle.

"I will serve," says Lady Dayne.

* * *

When the last of the captives is bound and sent to the work camp, Nochtli takes the Needle giving them the offer off to one side.

[[What did you mean when you said the woman's captor has no say?]] asks Nochtli.

[[Malinalli has ordered that all of the rich indigene are to be taken in the name of the Ivory Mask, for the sake of the expedition,]] says the Needle.

[[That isn't fair,]] says Nochtli, [[they're mine by the Harbinger's Rite-]]

[[Yes I know,]] says the Needle, [[I took this girl and her brother captive after having slain her father. Lost the brother to the same order.]]

Nochtli looks at the man's blue robes.

[[You saw battle?]] asks Nochtli, [[what's your name?]]

[[Akumal, of the Sixth Movement Day. And I wasn't supposed to see battle,]] says Akumal. [[I was helping to find good translators among the captives in the early morning, here in the courtyard before dawn, and this indigene jumps out from some wreck of a house. He takes a wild swing with his sword, but I put him down,]] says Akumal. He motions to an obsidian dagger at his belt under his cloak, [[not so bad eh? Picked up the girl by her scrawny arm, persuaded her brother to be still. The Blades came running and congratulated me. Needles don't get many captives.]]

The girl is too young for the offer, thinks Nochtli to himself, they must have assigned her to him anyway.

[[The brother was dressed fancy, and old enough to choose. He would have made a good servant,]] says Akumal, [[I have some land back home you know. Would be nice to have had another pair of hands to work it.]]

[[They took him because he's rich?]] asks Nochtli, [[a ransom?]]

[[No,]] says Akumal, [[they want those indigene to talk to the other tribes, the other kings. Persuade some to our side, since we can't fight them all at once.]]

That's true, thinks Nochtli. There's a logic to it - undoubtedly those with more gold will have more say. And Nochtli heard from rumors that here the highborn are considered almost sacred, as being of a higher kind of human. If they can be made to speak on behalf of the Ivory Mask then the other indigene kingdoms might listen.

Although it does lessen his chances of death, Nochtli regrets the sanity of it. It would have been easier to make the case to reclaim the woman in purple - Lady Dayne - if she was taken from him senselessly.

[[Well,]] says Nochtli, [[do we, well do we get anything for them in return? They can't just take them away. By the Harbinger's Rite they're ours.]]

[[I think they can just take them away,]] says Akumal.

On seeing Nochtli's exasperated face, Akumal adds:

[[There are others that are going to go speak with Malinalli, other Blades, a few other Needles. To voice their concerns, you know? You could go with them to hear what answer the Jade and Jasper have to give.]]

And so, perturbed at his loss of spoils, Nochtli goes where the Needle directs him: to the back castle entrance that will lead to where Malinalli is setting up a war room.

The morning air is still crisp and the light of day is pale and white as he makes his way across the ruined inner courtyard. The Blades herd more of the captives over to the pale stone altar and exit the castle having finished their last sweeps. The Needles occupy themselves serving as translators or teaching some of the cleverer indigene to serve as same. The Hammers survey the damage of the walls and the armor of the indigene while the Shields establish themselves at the gates and receive reports from war weary Blades.

A line of Blade guards keep watch along the wall closest to the pale stone castle. Between them and the pale stone walls march the indigene captives. Their ragged line leads to the makeshift camp on the far side of the courtyard: rickety wooden walls that corral in a great mass of unwashed people. At their edges near the entrances - slapdash gates kept at the ready by Atlacal equipped with blacksheen maces - the Needles gather in pairs to instruct the indigene on how to speak Atlajtoli, the most spoken tongue in Ayamictlan. The indigene shiver in fear and cold, their clothes mottled with filth and their minds wracked by shock, but they pay close attention to what the Needles have to say. The alternative is to be dragged away by one of the Blades.

This happens now before Nochtli's eyes. A stubborn indigene, a man of brown hair with a scraggly beard, is dragged away by two Blades. He resists at first, confused, but once the guards brandish their maces he slumps his head down in obedience. Although the indigene man doubtless lacks the ability to understand them he knows that they are not taking him to die - that choice was already provided to him. The Blades will take him to work.

Nochtli can smell it in the air: the rust smell of blood and the earthy scent of fresh dirt being disturbed. He can't see it from where he stands but he imagines that the place where they're disposing of the bodies - the grave garden - is probably outside of the castle walls. That's where the guards are leading the man.

This can't be how the indigene care for their dead, Nochtli thinks to himself. He sees it in the man, in the way his reluctant obedience gives way to fear, and his face becomes even more pale, as the guards march him out past the castle gates. In the distance Nochtli can hear the distant thuds of other indigene already at work dismembering the bodies that will fertilize the fields that will feed the expedition.

Hopefully Lady Dayne isn't so stubborn for that, Nochtli thinks to himself. He looks over to her now, taking a moment from his hurry to the war room. Her purple dress stands out as she is surrounded by her fellow indigene, all of them keeping a fair distance from her. Although all of the indigene chatter with one another casually, when they speak to the Lady Dayne they give little bows of reverence to her.

Presently Nochtli rounds the great corner of the castle. At one of the main entrances to the pale stone castle he sees a few guards standing watch as Hammers and Shields stream in and out, carrying curious pieces of indigene furniture out into the courtyard. For what Nochtli isn't sure - but some off duty people of the Flotilla gather around some of the tables, toying with the strange metal utensils of the indigene, talking about the battle that had passed, the rumored plans of the Mask of Jade and Jasper, and of the strange new people of this place. What boxes or cabinets the Atlacal find no immediate use for are piled up in one heap where a few Hammers stand by in their green cloaks, mulling over what they will make of all that woodwork.

Nochtli asks the guards how he might speak to Malinalli. They're only half awake and they lean on the walls to stay upright, but they muster enough energy to give him directions.

Inside the castle more Hammers and Shields shout and move things around, appraising the relics they find, dragging wood against stone. The cacophony of so much movement occasionally comes to a stop as some of the Atlacal come upon some strange new indigene novelty. Paintings are plentiful - the skill of their painters is plainly evident, for the works are beautiful - but their choice of subjects is mundane. Many are images of indigene, maybe living or dead, dressed in finery. The better ones are of landscapes, clean and clear as if one were seeing the mountains or forests depicted in them on a sunny day. The best ones are, of course, those of battle.

The sword and shooting star that are this castle's symbols are made manifest in little silver statuettes, sometimes free standing on tables, sometimes engraved onto other things like clothes or armor. Some statuettes of their Seven Pointed God appear as well, either in silver or iron, along with others: a man, a warrior, a Hammer, a young woman, a mother, an old woman, and, rarely, a figure in a robe. That these also number seven does not go unnoticed by Nochtli.

Finally, after hallways and stairs and more hallways, Nochtli finds Malinalli's entourage. Three Blades in armor of green, orange, and red guard a hallway that ends in a large purple door.

[[I've come to speak to the Mask of Jade and Jasper,]] says Nochtli to the Blades.

[[You also came to complain?]] asks the first Blade.

[[The Mask won't change her mind,]] says the second.

[[The rest have already come by,]] says the third, [[you've missed your chance.]]

[[Well what did she tell the others?]] asks Nochtli.

[[Compensation has yet to be decided,]] says the first Blade.

[[Lucky to be getting anything at all,]] says the second.

[[A few came to give theirs over willingly,]] says the third.

They gave theirs over for nothing, Nochtli thinks to himself.

[[As they should,]] says Malinalli.

She and her retinue of guards, all of them Blades in green, orange, and red, approach from one of the long stone hallways, their footsteps lost among the din of work.

[[Your captives will not go unappreciated by the Ivory Mask,]] says Malinalli to Nochtli as she makes her way by.

[[Mask of the Ja-]] begins Nochtli.

[[But you are unhappy with this arrangement,]] says Malinalli, [[Ikal said this would keep happening. And let me guess, you would be happy to give your captive, in exchange for an early trip home?]]

Nochtli arches an eyebrow. He nods as he looks at Malinalli. She is older than Nochtli but not by all that much. For her to have become a Mask of Jade and Jasper at this age says something about either her cleverness or her tenacity.

[[So would every other Blade that managed to take one of the highborn indigenes,]] says Malinalli, [[hmph. If we let anyone who took a captive go early we wouldn't have enough soldiers for a Flower War. Even more ridiculous to ask for such a thing now that the ikualotl is so close. Tsk. Like children when the chores get tough.]]

[[Then we get nothing?]] asks Nochtli.

[[What you get is a much improved chance to live,]] says Malinalli, [[with these captives we'll be able to get some of the indigene to fight on our side. This Westeros will be just like Moe'Uhane before it, and Kailino before that. There are always the few that on top and those around them that scheme to take their place. Once we found out which is which we'll be able to set them against one another. Or would you rather go to battle against every tribe that might occupy this foreign land?]]

Nochtli says nothing. Both because Malinalli has the right of it, but also because he knows backtalk will be rewarded with double shifts tilling the grave garden.

[[No,]] says Malinalli, [[I didn't think so.]]

Malinalli continues on but before heading into the war room with her retinue Malinalli turns to Nochtli and says:

[[But as I said, your gift will not go unnoticed. The Commander is summoning the captains together in this castle's great hall in a few hours. There is still the question of the horse riders, the rest of this tribe, and of how best to hunt them down. You will be expected there, Captain Nochtli of the Fifth Snake Day.]]

Captain? Nochtli thinks to himself, I suppose they were always going to have to replace Tizoc. With that thought Nochtli returns for a moment to that strange wooden indigene house, on those stairs, watching the arrow sticking out of Tizoc's throat.

And then he's back.

[[I…]] begins Nochlit, [[...thank you, but, the captive, by the Harbinger's Rite-]]

[[Which one was yours? Could you now even point her out amongst a crowd of them?]] asks Malinalli.

[[Yes,]] says Nochtli, [[her name is Lady Dayne.]]

How could I forget? He thinks to himself.

[[Well she isn't your captive anymore,]] says Malinalli, [[I suggest you take your promotion and leave with the satisfaction of a job well done. The Ivory Mask will not suffer insolence with the ikualotl so near.]]

Malinalli enters the war room and the purple door shuts behind her.


	14. Part 13

[The earth was discovered to be round in the time of the ancient Greeks, and the notion became widespread during the medieval era.]

* * *

THREE TRAVELERS WATCH AS THE ROSES WILT UNDER THE LION'S ROAR

As the second daughter of two Citlali often felt it difficult to capture her parent's attention. Her older sister, Iyali, was the prettier one. No one was impolite enough to say so out loud, of course, but this sentiment was clear in the things friends and family would say. Iyali had such wonderful taste in dresses, such creative ways of styling her beautiful hair. Citlali had a fondness for books, a habit that has a way of carving young minds into curious shapes. All Iyali wanted was to be a rich merchant's wife and mind a home, which strangers found adorable. Her parents approved of this notion: a son in law that can buy a home for a wife to mind is a good one.

These and other thoughts came to an abrupt halt when Citlali informed her parents of her acceptance into the expedition. In the first moments Citlali reveled in the surprised look on their faces. They didn't think their daughter so audacious, Citlali thought to herself then, or so capable. But their expressions quickly turned to dark fear and Citlali felt terror strike her heart then. She would be away from them for a long time. And while the expeditions eastward have found no land that could host dangers, the Sunrise Sea has claimed so many of those that have ventured into it's blue maw. Citlali felt ashamed that her petty vengeance inspired so much terror in her parents, but she could not take it back. While pettiness played a part, in truth, joining the expedition was what Citlali always wanted. Books imparted on Citlali an unfortunate idealism; an idealism that manifested in a deep and secretive yearning for unknown places, away from others, a yearning that aligned with the noble desire to serve the Tlon in his search for new lands for holy sacrifice.

And here I am, Citlali thinks to herself, not without some bittersweetness, all according to plan.

After a few weeks Leon the Poorfellow has no more good faith due to him in the southern Reach. He hadn't helped Citlali and Leon get any work or any sort of money together, beyond that of what they needed in the immediate to eat or drink. However, he told Citlali and Lomys that his mother will have some gold dragons to spare them. On seeing the surprise on Citlali's and Lomys' faces he explains that his mother, Elinore Florent, is a cousin of Lord Alekyne Florent of Brightwater Keep. Although the Poorfellows are meant to renounce their lands and titles his mother Elinore is still among the Seven's faithful and as such is free to give her charity to any septim or servant of the Seven that she wishes, all past trifles never to be minded. As their food supplies are thin Leon proposes they head there. With no coin and no alternative, Citlali and Lomys go along with him to provide him company. Besides, a group of three is more difficult to rob than a group of two.

Journeying together also means more sermons given by Leon about his seven gods. At first Citlali found them interesting, even amusing. Back in the septry where Leon first took them for food and rest, Citlali listened closely to the discussions that Leon and the other followers of the seven gods would have with one another. Serious talks about what these invisible seven-in-the-sky thought about the things people were doing here in this world, and how such actions might be rewarded or punished. She also heard more of the stories in their holy book, the Seven Pointed Star, cautionary tales about behaviors to avoid and about principled people who are always rewarded in the end for their loyalty.

Now out here on the monotony of the road, with no other faithful to keep his concentration, Leon repeats these and other sermons but seems to forget them; he'll give the same sermon twice, maybe three times. Citlali, being too polite to interrupt this man who has and currently is leading them to food and shelter, says nothing in protest.

Lomys says nothing either, but his silence seems less like polite courtesy and more like dutiful reverence. When Citlali and Lomys speak in Atlajtoli about the faith of the seven Lomys expresses his doubts. He admits that he's never seen a miracle like the stories in the Seven Pointed Star, and that he's never heard any of the Seven speak to him. Yet he never says any of these things to Leon in the Common Tongue. It makes a certain kind of sense: like herself, Lomys is perhaps also simply being courteous. But it seems to Citlali that what one believes "in their heart" is a highly spiritually important concept in this indigene religion, something that would come far before any concerns about good manners.

Presently, Citlali becomes aware of silence. Whereas before Leon was droning on about something or another, she realizes that he's stopped talking.

"Well, have you?" asks Leon.

Citlali looks at him, then to Lomys. For his part Lomys also looks at her expectantly, unsure of what she's going to say.

"Have you seen any proof of your pagan religion with your own eyes?" asks Leon.

Citlali hesitates for a moment.

"No, of course not, for you see-" begins Leon

"Yes," says Citlali.

"Oh?" says Leon playfully, "well let's have it then."

"You would not believe me," says Citlali.

"Believe what?" asks Leon, "Do you claim to have seen miracles?"

"There are no miracles," says Citlali.

Leon looks amused now.

"Then what do you claim you've seen?" he asks.

"An Aspect of the wilds," says Citlali, "He of the False Sheen."

"A god of your people?" asks Leon.

"There are no gods," says Citlali, "I renounced."

"A spirit then," says Leon, "a demon. And there is in fact one God, the Seven as One."

"I saw him," says Citlali, "when I was a girl. My family and I travel south to visit relatives. At dusk, when we found an inn to rest along the main road, all four of us saw him on the top of a ridge. He of the False Sheen has black fur that glimmers gold and fangs as long as a man's leg. The old stories say he can eat children whole in one bite. I saw him walk up to the edge of the hill, black against the pink sunset sky, saw him sit and watch us, his yellow eyes shining. The innkeepers said there was nothing to worry about, that around those parts He of the False Sheen respects the covenant between humanity and the Night Drinker. That is why we weren't already dead."

Leon takes all of this in. His face betrays skepticism, but also a wary curiosity.

"What does this prove?" he asks.

"That the Night Drinker is real," says Citlali, "and treats with us."

"That is why you pray to him?" asks Leon.

"The Night Drinker doesn't hear prayers," says Citlali, "he hears his stomach growl when he's hungry. We persuade him not to eat us with our offerings and he keeps his word."

"And what offerings do you make to him?" asks Leon.

The answer must be given carefully - this is what Citlali learned in the School of the Obsidian Butterfly. Not all of the indigene know the true price of life in this world. They exist in the shadow Atlacal and her allies, oblivious to the sacrifices made. For the indigene the sun is held aloft seemingly by magic, nourishing itself endlessly. They are like children who see their bowl endlessly refilled by their parents, who know nothing of the work required to provide the food. And like children, they will refuse to accept the amount of work truly required of life - if pushed, they will lash out.

Yet, unlike in the other places the Tlon has conquered, here in this Westeros no one knows of the ikualotl. The rot of the sun is visible even from the farthest reaches of Ayamictlan, surely it would be visible here, Citlali thinks to herself. But neither Lomys nor anyone in the Sunhouse nor any of the smallfolk they've met on their travels know of it. They will not even believe her descriptions of it: they cannot imagine such a fanciful and ominous thing as the sun going dark in the middle of the day. Could this Westeros really be so far away so as to make the rot...invisible? Could such a thing even be possible?  
The indigene speak instead of winter, a winter that many claim is soon approaching. Lomys explained it to her: cold eras that can last for years, when the days are short, the nights are long, and the world is covered in snow. Lomys says that during the last winter even his southern corner of the Reach saw snowfall. He explains that in the north the snow drifts are taller than people and that the horrors beyond the Wall spill over into Westeros proper. Could this winter be evidence of the rotted sun? Or is there something else here?

"Well?" asks Leon, "what offerings do you make him?"

"I-" begins Citlali. Her mind stumbles as she returns to the present. What offerings indeed.

"Art," she says, "paintings, jewelry, quetzal feathers, food."

And the highest of all sacrifices, she thinks to herself.

"And the Night Drinker is happy with this?" says Leon.

"He mostly cares for the food," says Citlali, "but he will take anything if there is enough beauty in it."

* * *

Until they reach the Taproot Tavern no further discussions are had, religious or otherwise. This Tavern is a little bit out of the way but Leon insists they go there they go there. He says that the master of the house is a pious man, and that the beds he offers up for servants of the Seven are soft and clean. Lomys tilts his head as he looks at his two companions as he says this. Perhaps the man's piety will only extend so far, he thinks to himself.

The front of the Tavern is dark wooden boards as one would normally expect, but it disappears into the mouth of a cave carved into the side of a hill. On the hilltop there is a massive beech tree, with five great trunks growing wildly out of it's center, it's leaves yellowing now that the winter nears. The roof of the tavern is made up of the roof of the cave's mouth from which also hang down the great beech trees roots, partially obscuring the sign up top that bears the establishment's name. Apart from it to one side are the stables, which only partly sink into the hill and partly stand in the hill's shadow, and in front of both there is a well with a locked wooden grate protecting the water below.

The three travelers settle up with the stable master to find their horses some hay and shelter. They have little money but Leon gives a name - Ranulf - and the stable master nods in weary understanding.

Merry music leaks out from the walls of the tavern, as well as the low roar of a chattering mass of people. Citlali gazes in through the windows and sees all the indigene inside, eating their grass bread with bowls of brownish stew, tossing back great wooden steins of their alcohol, this thing called beer. Here in Westeros there appears to be no prescriptions against drink, or if there are, they are largely ignored. Predictably this causes them to become rowdy and loud during all of their meals - for that is how often they seem to imbibe - and sluggish and irritable all the time in between. They seem to be in the thick of it in the tavern, for Citlali sees people slamming their mugs down on tables with uninhibited smiles, spilling some of the beer.

When they go in through the front doors the wall of sound takes all three aback for a second, but the scene continues without noticing them enter. Arguments are boiling over, jokes are being told, scandal is about to erupt, and somewhere in the back near the hearth there is the eager silence that precedes a hearty dinner. Citlali and Lomys keep close to one another while Lomys steps forward, leading the way. It's clear he's been here many times before as the two men behind the counter minding the kegs look and nod at him in recognition. As they move farther into the tavern they come upon a long hallway that is host to the many branches of the building. Back here the sounds of the tavern proper are muffled and there are only scattered groups finding their way to their own business, speaking or laughing furtively with one another.

From here Leon leads them to a staircase leading up past the second floor and on to the third. Up here the sounds of the rest of the tavern are so muffled that they can be hidden under a loud footfall. At the top of the stairs two men in leather armor stand at either sides of of the staircase.

"The third floor is restricted," says one of the two men. He is blonde and wears a fresh scar across his left cheek and nose.

"I am Leon, a Poorfellow," says Leon, "I've come to speak with my old friend, Ranulf."

"A man of the faith?" asks the second man. This one has light brown hair and green eyes, his face beginning to wrinkle with age.

"That I am, brother," says Leon.

"Who are they?" asks the blonde guard.

"They are my traveling companions," says Leon, "they've kept me company and helped stave off the bandits."

"You coming up from the south, brother Leon?" asks the brown haired man.

"Yes," says Leon.

"Figures," says the blonde man, "people are saying the bandits are moving south, to avoid the Lannisters."

"The Lannisters are in the Reach?" asks Lomys.

"Yes," says the blonde man, "got this cut here from a Lannister outrider. Had to take him down after he saw where the tavern was. Couldn't risk him letting them all know."

"Hmmm," says Lomys.

"It is hard to spot, the tavern, from the north, north east," says the brown haired man, "if the Lannisters didn't know to look, they might never stumble upon us."

"Not unless they take Highgarden, push to Brightwater Keep, then pull back and head to Highgarden," says the blonde haired man, "because then they'd see us on the way back."

The brown haired guard nods, acknowledging the point.

"Could you show me to Ranulf, my good fellows?" asks Leon.

"Oh, yes, of course brother," says the brown haired man.

In the farthest corner of the tavern, right at what Citlali guesses must be the very heart of the hill, is the room of Ranulf. The entrance is marked with two large double doors in a dark wood, with the edges and the door knobs painted a deep green. The two guards each grab one of the doors and swing them inward to reveal Ranulf sitting amidst a few tables, paperwork scattered all across them, engrossed in some scribbling. In place of windows there are magnificent paintings of landscapes, and on a bed off to the side of the room there is a beautiful woman, much younger than the graying Ranulf, dressed in red looking bored.

"Lord Flowers," says the brown haired guard to Ranulf, "a Poor Fellow to see you."

"Ranulf, my old friend," says Leon, "how long has it been?"

Ranulf looks up from his papers.

"Leon!" he says, recognition washing over his face, "ah, it's so good to see you! So good!"

Ranulf breathes a sigh of relief.

"Likewise my old friend," says Leon. He pauses for a moment, "brother, I-"

"I need you to bless the well outside," says Ranulf.

"Ah, well of course brother," says Leon, "I would be happy to."

"And the storehouse too," says Ranulf, "and the root cellar. And the wine cellar. The Tavern as a whole, really. And the hill. Oh, and the tree on top of it."

"All possible," says Leon. He looks from Ranulf to the woman on the bed, "I must say it is encouraging to see so much...piety. Ranulf-"

"Winter is coming," says Ranulf, "and we all need the gods' mercy, now more than ever. Did you hear that the Lannisters are marching on Highgarden?"

"I did," says Leon, "why? I've heard the rumors but-."  
"The Queen of the Realm wants to put down the Queen of Thorns. Whatever rumors you've heard are all true. The dowager Tyrell allied herself with the Targaryen girl," says Ranulf, "the one leading an army of eunuchs and savages."

"Those stories can't be true," says Leon.

"And with three dragons," says Ranulf, "three! just like Aegon the Conquerer. Oh, it's all going to get so much worse before it better brother Leon. And people know it now! So don't forget to bless the well. We need that water for everything. It doesn't freeze during the winter - I don't know why, I don't question it - and the last thing we need is some Lannister or some eunuch or some savage tossing a corpse down there and poisoning us all."

"Yes, of course," says Leon, "brother, I wanted to speak to you about a room."

"You can have a room," says Ranulf, "you can have three. They've all gone empty. The spat between Lion and Rose has spooked all the merchants and travelers."

"But there were rooms of people happy and drinking downstairs," says Leon.

"A farewell feast," says Ranulf, "they leave for the ports of Oldtown in the morning."

* * *

By noon the next day the main party has departed from the Taproot Tavern leaving only a few stragglers behind, Leon, Citlali, and Lomys among them. Those that remain cocoon themselves in the new solitude, among the now cavernous common areas of the tavern, making no effort to speak or mingle with anyone else. A northerner, his cape lined with fur, wanders the hallways absentmindedly, mumbling to himself; a mother and daughter, speaking in the slight sing song of the Reach's accent, whisper to one another at a lonely table; an old Sandy Dornishman, his dark skin stark against the cream and teal of his garb, scribbles furtively in brown leather bound book. Over the next few days Leon did as he said he would and blesses the well and the cellars and all the rest. With that done he spends his time sitting at the counter drinking cider until he gets so drunk he goes outside to preach to the birds.

Citlali and Lomys also find ways of being by themselves. Now that the light of the day has grown paler, the heat of the sun is only a passing embrace, so they take to action to warm themselves. They go on walks together up to the top of the hill into which the Tavern is carved, where the massive beech tree grows. The autumn has touched the great tree's very top so that a splash of red sits atop a swath of yellow - only the bottom half of the branches still hold green leaves. Up here the two broach the subject which has of late created some distance between them. Citlali still holds out hope of getting some money together and heading back down south toward the coast in hopes of finding a ship of her fleet. Lomys is sympathetic but even farther south if they cannot find one of her fleet they will be living through the winter on the road, a sure guarantee of death.

"If we find my people they'll have supplies," says Citlali, "food, blankets, gold for trade."

"And if we don't find them?" asks Lomys, "it only takes one night to freeze."

"We will find another place," says Citlali, "another tavern, like this one."  
"People aren't so friendly during the winter," says Lomys, "no one knows how long winter lasts, they don't know if they have enough to last it all the way through. The longer the winter, the less generous people get."  
"How can you not know how long the winter lasts?" asks Citlali.

"How do you know how long the ikualotl lasts?" asks Lomys.

"The ikualotl lasts for as long as it takes," says Citlali, "until the sun is rekindled."

"But you still don't know," says Lomys, "you still don't know how many people you need to sacrifice-"

[[How many people must give their service,]] Citlali corrects him. This is the polite way the subject is broached in Ayamictlan, and Citlali wishes Lomys would take to it.

"You don't know," says Lomys, "but we what we do know is that Ranulf Flowers has a tavern here, with a well stocked larder, and who is short on hands for work."

"What work?" asks Citlali, "the mother and daughter clean their own things. Probably trying to stay like us. The Northman of furs will leave. The old man might leave or stay, but in either case, there won't be anywhere near enough work for us to do."

"There are travellers during the winter," says Lomys, "merchants still need to travel, the Lords send messengers and people to one another. There will be work, and he knows it."

"What reason does he have to give it to us?" asks Citlali, "I thought you said people aren't generous during the winter."

Lomys look down and away from her in exasperation.

"If we can just find my people everything will be fine," says Citlali, "you will be safe, I will vouch for you, we just need to find the coast and then-"

"Citlali, neither of us is going home ever again," says Lomys.

She stares at him hard.

"Don't say that," says Citlali, "they'll be looking for me, they don't leave people behind. Even during the conquest of Moe'Uhane, they went back for sailors stranded on the little islands or lost at sea. They'll do the same for me! I won't have to stay here in Westeros."

"Would it be so bad if you did?" asks Lomys.

Silence falls between the two of them. Eventually the silence breaks, but it's not broken by either of the two, but rather by the arrival of a low thundering sound.

Horses approach from a distance. From the northeast, riding toward the hill with the massive beech tree, are five horsemen. They ride in a single file line, following the dirt path between the rolling hills, their gold and green garb ragged and stained red, fluttering in the wind.

"Tyrell men," says Lomys, "look, the red rose on their backs."

"More lordlings," says Citlali.

"The Tyrells are good people," says Lomys.

"Good people," says Citlali, "just never to us."

The Tyrell riders make their way right up to the front of the Taproot Tavern at which point Citlali and Lomys set aside their disagreement to see what they're about. From afar they watch Ranulf Flowers come out of the Tavern to greet them with a deep bow. The riders dismount with one of the five nearly falling off his horse as he does so, revealing an ugly wound that cuts into his side. Leon the Poorfellow makes his way to this man and helps him into the Tavern.

Once inside the four riders help the last of them on to one of the tables and Ranulf shouts for his two guards to find the red woman from his room. The mother and daughter, dining in the corner, crane their heads up to get a better look at the arrivals. The Northman and the old Sandy Dornishman wander in from a hall, the ruckus having interrupted a conversation.

As Citlali watches Leon the Poorfellow and one of the other riders press their hands on the rider's wounds she moves forward to help him - students of the Obsidian Butterfly have their duties after all. But one of the riders pushes her away as she advances and before she can explain the wounded riders starts into a vicious cough.

"Breathe Rodric, just breathe," says one of the riders to his wounded companion. The other riders circle around their dying friend. At first they shout for someone to fetch some water and bandages but the wounded man's cough continues on, gains the thick wet sound of blood and viscera. The man's body seizes up in spasms and his arms reach weakly for his throat for a few moments after which his limbs fall limp.

"Rodric?" asks one of them.

There is no response but silence.

Citlali finds the eyes of the other guests of the Tavern and sees in them shock and confusion. Only then does she realize that no one knows why the riders are here or how one could have been killed.

"You," says one of the riders. He turns to Leon: "you're a man of the faith. Say some words for the man."

"I…," begins Leon.

"What happened to him?" asks Ranulf.

"He took a spear to his side," says one of the riders, "what does it look like?"

"But," asks Ranulf, "by who?"

The riders all look at one another. In the silence they take before answering the sounds of galloping horses can once more be heard approaching from a distance. Citlali and Lomys and the other guests of the Tavern perk up at the sound and turn to the windows, but the riders only grip the hilts of the swords at their belts.

"We didn't lose them," whispers one of the riders.

Along the same path as the Tyrell men another group of riders, a dozen men in red and gold armor, make their way toward the Tavern. Until now Citlali has only heard stories of this House, the Lannisters, they of the golden lion - the indigene word for jaguar. They are on unfriendly terms with the Tyrells of the Reach.

After a moment of reflection the Tyrell men head outside, leaving their dead compatriot on the table. Citlali watches their grim faces as they mount their horses and wordlessly set off to face down the approaching Lannister men. They don't ride far - the Lannisters have been running them down at full speed and haven't stopped. Their movement seems lessened in the distance but the crashing sound of sword against sword rings out angrily through the air as the two groups fall against one another. Two Lannister riders are knocked off their horses after the first charge but the Tyrell men are easily surrounded and after a few valiant ripostes on horseback they are thrown to the ground. Two are trampled to death. One has his head taken off. A third is run through the stomach with a sword. As the man on the other end of the sword kicks him back to free his sword the Tyrell man stumbles back and falls into the well before the Taproot Tavern.

The Lannisters, on seeing the stillness of their opponents corpses, raise their swords in triumph, exhilarated laughter spreading from one to another.

"Innkeeper! Fish that boy out of the well," shouts the Lannister man responsible for same, "the men will want to drink something cool."


	15. Part 14

THE IKUALOTL COMETH

Sassamon's room in the Place of Pale Stone once belonged to a member of the Dayne family, one of the holy ruling families of the indigene. When the guards first opened its creaky wooden door Sassamon saw the remains of a room abandoned in a hurry: the luxurious curtains are half drawn, the sheets on the bed are in disarray, and a cloak hans haphazardly off of an ornate dark wood chair. On the wall he sees a shield bearing the insignia of the Daynes, the white sword and the falling star emblazoned on a field of purple. There is also a round mirror on one of the walls and it's only after looking at the image of his own face clearly does he notice that the purple of the Daynes is the same shade as that of the tattoo that reaches up to his left eye; the same shade as used on the banners of his ancestral home, the House of Orchid Lake. It becomes clear to him just then that his occupancy is a taking.

He imagines that this room must have been reserved for distant family relatives, for although its quite spacious and has windows of spectacular views, it sits in a hallway separate and apart from the rest of the royal quarters. Across the way is another royal's room which belongs to Old Nayaraq, who Sassamon hardly sees. The elderly sometimes take to strange hours in their closing years. Malinalli assured both Sassamon and Old Nayaraq that despite their placement they would not be left out of any important discussions despite the distance of these quarters from those of the other expedition's leaders.

Neither Sassamon nor Old Nayaraq expected Malinalli to keep her word. If they trusted the Atlacal leaders they wouldn't be on this expedition in the first place. It is known that the Ivory Mask has been growing increasingly annoyed at the fact that Atlacal shoulders the heaviest load when it comes to providing captives for service. Both Holy Iwaniku and Hinojovo don't want a repeat of the Moe'Uhane Affair, and so on this expedition certain special counselors, such as Sassamon, and interested experts such as Old Nayaraq, have been sent. Sassamon wonders just how much he can really oversee with just a modest troop of fellow easterners at his command here - even if he wanted to press his case against something the Atlacal could simply overrule him by threat of force. They probably wouldn't, Sassamon thinks to himself. It's true that the rot approaches and more sacrifices are needed, but times are not yet so dire. They wouldn't, Sassamon thinks to himself again.

Malinalli however was better than her word. Yaretzi and her Needles, along with Chami's pilgrims, have been charged with turning the common indigene to the cause of the Triple Alliance, while Sassamon and Old Nayaraq are to negotiate with the heads of the indigene Houses along with Malinalli herself. To Old Nayaraq Malinalli assigned House Uller, a tribe of indigene that lives in the desert to the east in a place called Hellholt, and House Brownstone, a small coastal tribe to the south that control an inlet known as the Salt Scar. To Sassamon Malinalli assigned House Blackmont, a tribe from somewhere up the river Torrentine, and House Fowler, a tribe from farther up where the river is fed. Not all of these houses must be brought to the side of the Triple Alliance, just enough of them to crush those that don't.

Sassamon learned a great deal from the houses he's meant to treat with from Cidrio, the Maester stationed to Castle Starfall, renamed by the Atlacal to the Place of Pale Stone. True to the creed of his sect the maester answered all of Sassamon's questions about the Blackmonts and the Fowlers, down to the sizes and makeup of their forces, their main sources of food and water, and the closeness of their relation to the king of this desert landscape, Prince Doran Martell. Along with the other heads of the expedition listening to the maester in the newly repurposed lord's solar Sassamon learns that the seat of power here is located on the eastern shore, in a place called the Sunspear. What's more, this Prince Doran has raised his banners and has summoned his allied men in the rest of Dorne to his side in order to fight against the Lannisters, a rival kingdom from the mountainous west. But not all rush to his aid with enthusiasm. Just as in Moe'Uhane before this, and the Northern Wastes of Ayamictlan before that, not all of the people pledged to a king - or a Prince - have pledged to him by their own will.

It's with these discoveries in mind Sassamon composed his first letter, which, for a Dawnlander in Westeros, was a curious process. First Sassamon had to write his letter in Atlajtoli, which he would then recite to a translator - Lodos, a portly indigene captured early in the expedition - who would translate the spoken Atlajtoli into the spoken Common Tongue, which Maester Cidrio would then write down. To ensure that the Maester was not deceiving the Alliance Malinalli would then assign a different translator - a Needle of the expedition named Zeltzin - to read off what the Maester had wrote before sending it off. All of this meant that Sassamons first letter to Lord Remir of House Blackmont took hours to finish. It wasn't a long thing either: it was a greeting, a declaration of his name, a declaration of the Triple Alliance's existence, a statement by the Maester proclaiming them the new occupants of the castle formerly known as Starfall, and a desire to open diplomatic talks.

The response came quickly. This is something Sassamon and the other Ayamictlan found fascinating: the ravens carry the messages. He had first learned of this at the Place of Berries, formerly the Arbor, but he departed before getting to see it for himself. The Westerosi have tamed these birds and taught them to fly over great distances, each raven corresponding to some distant castle, with each other castle equipped with same, so that all major castles are connected like the lattice of a net. In Hinojovo and all over Ayamictlan the ravens are much too proud for this sort of work - murders keep close and will work together to free a brother taken prisoner, and so the people must instead form correspondence outposts. Yaretzi has a great deal of interest in solving the curious mystery of how the Westerosi split the raven flocks apart and took their members to tame, but Malinalli will not allow it. Nothing is allowed to disrupt the diplomatic process.

Once the raven from Blackmont came to the ravenry, there, surrounded by squawking birds, Sassamon had the Maester read the response to him.

"Lord Sassamon,

House Blackmont is glad to see that you and your people are honorable folk and have made your presence clear so that, should we come to war, we will be able to challenge you fairly on the field. I must bow to my honor as well, and inform you that House Blackmont has been sworn to House Dayne for hundreds of years. We can not by any usual means have diplomatic channels, as we are duty bound to see you slain and Starfall returned to its rightful owners. This, I am afraid, is simply how things are.

-Lord Remir Blackmont"

Curious, thinks Sassamon to himself just then.

He mulls over the Lords words. He has the time as House Fowler has yet to respond to his first missive, identical to the one that went to Blackmont save for the names. In his royal's room Sassamon sits, gazing out the window, out toward the dry eastern expanse of this land called Dorne, a place much like the Needle Desert save for its lack of cacti and its excess of sand. This man Remir Blackmont, where is he? Sassamon thinks to himself. He is sworn to the Daynes, which means he is sworn to both the indigene princess named Allyria and the gray haired swordsman they named Gerold. Yet he has also been called to the east to battle - Prince Doran has made the call to arms at the same time that the Triple Alliance appears on Blackmont's horizon. A man pulled in multiple directions is likely to stay in the same place, Sassamon thinks to himself, concerned for his own self.

And so Sassamon pens his response:

"Lord Remir Blackmont,

During times of war the world is obscured by a veil of smoke and things become difficult to see. Let me clear the air: the Place of Pale Stone was captured not out of greed or malice but due to a broken oath and the murder of our ambassadors. Had the Daynes not killed our people there would have been no need for violence - we of the Triple Alliance only want to engage in trade. And like you, we take our duties seriously.

The Mask of Jade and Jasper does not want any violence with any other indigene tribe when trade can be had instead. The expedition of the Triple Alliance is prepared to offer gifts of gold and weapons to you in exchange for your pledge of further trade and your support in the apprehension of the man known as Gerold Dayne, who has given battle to our forces. We understand that this goes against your previous obligations, but surely the present circumstances must be accounted for. You should not have to stand beside an ally that breaks their oaths. Your honor is not responsible for their dishonor.

But perhaps I speak out of turn. I am not Westerosi, and I do not know the laws of your land.

-Sassamon Noosso"

It takes a few days for a raven to return from Blackmont. Still no word from the House Fowler. Sassamon passes the intervening time by wandering out in the castle courtyard. There the Hammers and the Blades are setting the indigene to work with the help of indigene translators. The smallfolk have largely been sent out to the fields, accompanied by a wandering regiment of Needles that watches their agriculture with a careful eye. Those that remain within the courtyard's bounds are artisans and former fighting men conscripted into artisanry. Blades dressed in crimson and wielding treated obsidian maces, those that Sassamon knows are Commander Ikal's troop, watch to ensure no indigene raise a hammer in hostility. Ikal has ordered that the iron suits of the indigene warriors be smelted down and reforged into bracers, pauldrons, and greaves - all the places where Atlacal salt armor provides little protection - and be redistributed across the Triple Alliance's forces. In order for this to be done before they set out to find Gerold Dayne, the captives must be trusted with the fire of the forge.

In the eyes of captive Westerosi warriors Sassamon sees the anger and indignity one would expect - thy are, after all, being made to labor for their captors. But he also sees fleeting moments of confusion play across their faces. This is clearly not the captivity they expected to find themselves in.

On one occasion, as Sassamon wandered the courtyard grounds pondering why the Fowlers have elected not to respond, he watched a curious interaction between the Atlacal and the Westerosi. A pale skinned indigene, age unclear but a properly grown man with straw colored hair and a thick beard, stopped hammering away at the forge. Sassamon noted him as he passed by the workshop as that man's arms where the only ones that were still. After another moment the man dropped his hammer, and the thud of metal on earth alerted the nearby Blades guarding him. They hustled him out and summoned a Needle translator. The translator asked the indigene:

"Do you wish to give your service?"

"No," said the indigene, "I will work no longer."

"Yes," said the translator, "but will you give your service?"

"No!" said the indigene, "I won't work anymore!"  
"I understand," said the translator, "if you no work you give service. If no give service, then you work. You understand?"

"What?" asked the indigene, "no. You will get no use out of me! Go ahead and kill me like you did all the others! I don't care anymore!"

"Ah yes," said the translator, "we kill you if you wish. You wish killed?"

"I-", began the indigene, "I...you'll just kill me if I ask? Right now?"

"Oh no," says the translator, "the priest needed to do properly. But no fear, he is practiced. Very quick, no pain."

"But," said the indigene, "don't you need me to work?"

"Yes," said the translator, "and if you work good, maybe captor allows you sleep on the shore of Ayamictlan like a free man. But if you want kill we kill. It is as we say: a man's life is his own."

"You want killed?" asked the translator again.

The indigene is taken aback. He expected that on displaying his rancor the choice would be made for him. To choose now, consciously and with his own words, to die, is a new wrinkle.

"I- n-no," said the indigene, "Ill work."

When the raven from House Blackmont arrives Sassamon has Lodos read it to him again, this time however while in the comfort of Sassamon's semi-royal room.

"Sassamon,

I must concede I find your revelation concerning. The Daynes have always been powerful but not always cordial, least among them the Darkstar, Gerold Dayne. It is perhaps not known to you but it is known among the families in this end of Dorne that the Darkstar goaded my favorite nephew Roul into a duel by kissing Roul's betrothed. I knew my nephew could not kill the Dayne in single combat - no one save for Ser Arthur Dayne could do that - but I also knew, and Roul knew too, that his lady's honor demanded he duel anyway.

Needless to say, I saw my nephew, who I loved like he was my own son, cut down.

This does not prove that Allyria Dayne has sullied her honor nor that the capture of Castle Starfall is justified, I tell you this merely to show that I see with clear eyes who my allies are, and that I am an understanding man. As such, I still cannot take your call to diplomacy seriously until I have heard from Allyria Dayne and the young Edric Dayne, who are the other party in this dispute. Produce them and let me hear their words and only then could we see about oaths and trade.

-Lord Remir Blackmont"

Excellent, thinks Sassamon to himself, now we have something. Sassamon isn't actually going to release the prince or princess - even if the Jade and Jasper allowed it he still wouldn't do so. For here he has found the texture of this indigene society, where honor matters more than pragmatic concerns. If Allyria's word is so important then that pretext will be enough to convince Lord Blackmont into trading ambassadors, and once that's done, to cajole him with trade. He still hasn't mentioned how he's been summoned by Doran Martell, thinks Sassamon to himself, perhaps he thinks we don't know? Perhaps his keep is empty and his warriors have already gone to join against these so called Lannisters, and the lord is merely bluffing. Or perhaps he never sent his warriors at all - perhaps he's kept them around to deal with the Darkstar.

After others have sent and received ravens to and from the various indigene Houses, the leaders of the Triple Alliance convene to discuss the landscape of this Dorne. Like the indigene kings who occupied the Place of Pale Stone before them, leadership gather in the lord's solar, pale and brightly lit from sunlight shining in through the generous windows. Unlike the kings however no one sits atop the throne, instead, the seven of them sit at a long table at the center of the grand room.

At the head of the table sits Malinalli with her jade and jasper mask - shaped in the vague image of her own face - loose around her neck, the straps of it hidden by the black hair that hangs to her shoulders. To her left sits Commander Ikal, head of the Blades, with his head of graying hair turned downward and resting on his fist in thought. To her right sits Yaretzi, the vibrant head of the Needles, her hands stained with ink. Following each of them is Old Nayaraq, the green dressed woman who heads the Hammers and Tlacaelel, the stern looking man who is the head of the Shields. At the farthest end of the table from Malinalli Sassamon sees the spot left for him. In the seat next to his open chair sits Chami the oracle speaker, busy with her eyes closed in prayer, her golden circlet brought down before her eyes to shield them from the blinding strength of the sun spirits they call The Radiances. She and Sassamon are the only non-Atlacal leaders of the expedition, and it is not lost on Sassamon that they are sat together and apart from the others.

Once he's taken his seat the deliberations begin.

First Commander Ikal gives a summary of the expeditions fortifications. The repairs to the walls of the Place of Pale Stone have been completed, and the captives conscripted to that end have been tasked to create new dugout fortifications around the castle's exterior, to protect against mounted riders. The Blades themselves are training with what horses the expedition was able to capture. The process has been slow but recently sped up thanks to the conscription of indigene smallfolk into an irregular army, enticed into service with promises of gold and land, who are teaching the Atlacal how to ride. In addition, word has come from the Place of Berries that Itzacoyotl, Malinallis counterpart, has secured the totality of the island, and is ready to defend it against any indigene fleet that might look to retake it.

[[And the highborn families?]] asks Malinalli.

[[In the Place of Berries Itzacoyotl tells us that the Redwyne family has been brought to heel,]] says Ikal, [[The Maester of that place says that the Redwyne fleet left to do battle with another fleet under the command of a man named Euron Greyjoy, who is said to lead an armada of squid men. Itzacoyotl says that ever since the Redwyne fleet never came back the family has been broken, and conscription of the indigene has gone much more smoothly.]]

[[Good. And the Daynes?,]] says Malinalli.

[[We've learned that the boy Edric is now there and ten years old,]] says Yaretzi, [[this makes him head of the family. By their laws his authority now supersedes that of Allyria.]]

[[And his men are bound by their gods to follow his orders,]] says Malinalli, not without some satisfaction.

[[Their gods are invisible,]] says Ikal, [[and are the cause of both nothing and everything.]]

[[What does that mean?]] asks Tlacaelel. Like Sassamon and Chami, Tlacaelel came with the second wave of the expedition and has had less time with the indigene religion.

[[Their religion comes second to their politics,]] says Old Nayaraq, [[just because they are pledged to their gods doesn't mean they will behave accordingly - they are still men, after all. At most they have a justification to do what the boy says, but not a reason to.]]

[[We can give them another reason easily]] asks Chami. She removes the circlet from her eyes and rests on the top of her head, [[the indigene are dazzled by gold - with enough I am sure we can persuade them simply not to take up arms against us, which is all we really need, isn't it?]]

[[That may be so if we can learn to ride their horses,]] sas Ikal, [[mounted men with macuahuitl, with horses that can carry them back to a blood priest to be healed if they're injured - that would guarantee our ability to hold our position with only our own forces. But the smallfolk we can persuade to teach us know nothing of mounted tactics or strategy. Only their warrior class knows those things, and they would rather die than cooperate.]]

[[What about the Maester?]] asks Tlacaelel, [[he is a learned man, he must know something of warcraft - or the history of warcraft here at least.]]

[[I have already spoken with him on the subject,]] says Malinalli, [[he claims ignorance. Apparently each link in his chain is a badge of knowledge, and he lacks the iron link, which signifies knowledge of warcraft.]]

[[He could have simply thrown it away, and claimed never to have one. Do you believe him?]] asks Tlaecalel.

Malinalli smiles.

[[I asked him those same things,]] she says, [[and made sure he answered honestly.]]

[[Will the boy Edric do as we tell him?]] asks Sassamon, returning to the topic at hand, [[the princess Allyria was never going to break, but the boy has been well, malleable, has he not? His word would be useful in making allies here.]]

[[Yes,]] says Mallinalli, [[he is quiet, and still frightened, but he can see that this is the way now. And what's more, without the maester or the indigene septons, he takes to the cosmovision over their false gods.]]

[[I was unaware we had decided what the indigene would be converted to,]] says Chami curtly.

[[Nor I,]] says Sassamon.

[[It was the boy who took to it, without my prodding,]] says Malinalli, [[he kept the book the Needle ambassadors first gave to him and has practiced with it daily.]]

[[Well,]] says Commander Ikal, [[if we can win the boy to our side, and if his men follow his lead, then we will have at least two fortresses here in Westeros well under our control. With the capture of the Darkstar we will have his home of High Hermitage as well.]]

[[That assumes both that Itzacoyotl can hold the Place of Berries, and we can hold the Place of Pale Stone,]] says Old Nayaraq.

[[Why wouldn't we be able to do that?]] asks Malinalli, [[the indigene have been subdued, our archers are on the walls. And what's more, the indigene have been called east to answer the call of the Prince of Dorne.]]

[[Princess,]] says Old Nayaraq.

A few confused looks are shared among the group.

[[Princess?]] asks Yaretzi. She rifles through some of her scrolls and reaches for her quill.

[[Prince Doran is dead of some wasting disease,]] says Old Nayaraq, [[I have received a raven from House Brownstone to that effect. His daughter Arianne Martell succeeds him as the new Princess of Dorne. If what Lord Brownstone says is true - we will need to have other sources confirm it - then she is set to continue the war against the Lannisters.]]

[[She seeks the Iron Throne…]] says Malinalli.

The Iron Throne, thinks Sassamon to himself. In a place called the Red Keep, in a city called King's Landing, resides this seat of power that all highborn indigene of Westeros covet. The stories of the captives tell of a throne made from the swords of the conquered, hundreds of iron blades assembled in the crude shape of a chair, melted together by dragonfire. Dragonfire, swords, thinks Sassamon to himself, the primal is powerful. He is reminded then of the Ivory Mask of the Atlacal - that crude and weathered hunk of bone, passed down from one Tlon to the next, said to be made from the shattered pieces of the skull of the First Man.

[[Another claimant, ]] says Sassamon, [[better for us that the indigene fight amongst themselves. When they are weary of war they will take to peace.]]

[[Take to peace,]] says Malinalli. She says it to herself, as if only just now considering the idea.

[[There are other concerns,]] says Old Nayaraq, [[food will be scarce if the stories of the approaching winter are true. And the Blades are growing despondent about that the expedition's taking of their rightful captives.]]

[[Is this about Nochtli?,]] says Commander Ikal, [[He'll quiet down, and so will the others. That, or they will be made to quiet down. I will have no insolence on my watch.]]

[[Men cannot be convinced against their will,]] says Old Nayaraq, [[and even if they could, there is the other matter.]]

[[Which is?]] asks Ikal.

[[The ikualotl could be begin any day now,]] says Old Nayaraq, [[if what the indigene say is true, and the ikualotl cannot be seen here, it may have already started without us knowing, we won't hear from Ayamictlan for at least another three months-]]

[[Heresy,]] says Malinalli, [[if the ikualotl started we would know it. We would see it.]]

[[Mask of Jade,]] says Yaretzi, [[the Needles have scoured the indigene books, we've interrogated the Maesters of both of our fortresses about it now, and there are no stories of the sun rotting. Winters yes, mythically long, but no Rotted Ones. No practice of sacrifices in the name of the sun.]]

Malinalli says nothing.

[[This raises an interesting chance to observe what happens to people of Ayamictlan,]] continues Yaretzi, [[it will allow us to see if the Dark Sign is imparted by the ikualotl or is it inheren-]]

[[But how can it be?]] blurts Mallinalli, [[how can there be no ikualotl here? It goes against everything-]]

[[It's this winter,]] interjects Chami, [[the details are different but the arch is the same-]]

[[They could be mistaken,]] says Ikal, [[the indigene could simply misinterpret-]]

And the exasperation deepens as the other leaders throw their arguments into the ring. They avoided discussing this before, back when the stargazer's charts predicted that the ikualotl was still two or so years out, but it has been some time since the first landing of the three ships on Westeros, and at the most conservative range the ikualotl really could begin any day. Sassamon for his part doesn't understand the obsession - if it isn't here today then they shouldn't worry about it, and when it comes they'll deal with it then, just as they've always done. But, he supposes, there are much larger machinations at play. Whether or not the ikualotl exist here implies some serious things about Atlacal cosmovision. As a man of faith himself Sassamon can see in the faces of his vexed companions the internal conflict, the crashing realizations from watching their belief repelled by the world..

He recalls something in the Atlacal's history, something that believers call the Night's Deceit and the doubters call the Day's Illusion. As the story goes, during the First Night the Golden Jaguar and the Obsidian Butterfly, looking to break a stalemate between themselves and the alliance of the Emerald Hummingbird and the Crystal-feathered Serpent, attempted to deceive mankind by telling them that their sacrifice was only needed so that the Four Siblings wouldn't sacrifice themselves. The Golden Jaguar declared that it was the Crystal-feathered Serpent who proposed the deception, and the Obsidian Butterfly, gifted with flight and night sight, testified that the Emerald Hummingbird was the Serpent's accomplice. Mankind was deceived and would not return to the practice of sacrifice until after the Hummingbird and the Serpent were defeated, when the defeated confessed their sin. The story is largely taken as an example of the terrible ways people turn on one another in desperate times, but there has always been a small faction among the Atlacal and elsewhere, determined people who call themselves the Day's Remnants, who believe the "deception" was the reality, and "reality" the deception. For years they've plotted against not only the Tlonotl but the Conclave of Hinojovo and the Dead Kings of Holy Iwaniku, stoking whatever fires of mutiny or discontent they can among the people.

Belief can do so many things, thinks Sassamon to himself.

After a few minutes the issue of the ikualotl dies among the gathered - until they receive word from Ayamictlan, or until they see the rot themselves, there simply isn't anything to be done about it. Malinalli calls for the Needles and the Blades to begin preparing an ambassadorial retinue to send out should the indigene houses prove receptive to their reasoning. Edric and the Maester are to fall under Malinalli's direct control - the other highborn are to be kept confined, to be used as tokens for bargain should the indigene houses ask for them.

The next morning, Sassamon pens his next missive to Blackmont:

"Lord Remir Blackmont,

I am glad to see you are a reasonable man.

As I understand it, by the customs of your land, the scion of a holy family becomes the leader of that family at three and ten years old. As such I hope that you will accept the word of Edric Dayne in this dispute. Our leaders have spoken with him and he has agreed to send a message to the allies of House Dayne that will clarify what has happened in this dispute. Rest assured that he and the rest of his family have been treated well while in our custody, losses during the battle aside.

We are also identifying some of our most trusted people in the hopes of trading ambassadors with your House. This trade should allow for your people to attest to the well being of the captive Daynes and allow diplomacy to flow between our two peoples. Since you are more familiar with this land than we, we would ask that you suggest a meeting place, some halfway point between Blackmont and the Place of Pale Stone where our two envoys can meet peaceably.

We shall be ready to ride when your response arrives.

-Sassamon Noosso"

Once the missive is penned and tied to a raven Sassamon returns to his quarters. As he makes his way back he hears a clattering noise coming from Old Nayaraq's room. The door is closed so the sound is muffled and Sassamon hurries quickly toward it.

[[Nayaraq?]] asks Sassamon. He knocks on the door, [[are you alright?]]

There's a pause.

[[Yes, I'm fine,]] says Nayaraq, [[this old woman isn't dead.]]

[[Do you need any help?]] asks Sassamon.

Another pause. This one is longer than the first.

[[Come in,]] says Nayaraq.

Sassamon does so. Inside he can see that her quarters are a mirror of his, but with more decorations - a series of iron stars on the wall that seem to follow a large pale one, little trinket boxes on the mantle. The bed seems almost identical, except for Nayaraq sitting on it's edge.

[[Close the door behind you,]] says Nayaraq.

Sassamon does this too. He waits patiently Nayaraq to say what she has to say.

[[I don't know that I can trust my countrymen,]] says Nayaraq, [[And I don't trust that Chami girl - much too young to know how to keep secrets. That just leaves you, Dawnlander.]]

Sassamon nods hesitantly.

[[I need you to keep this secret,]] says Nayaraq, [[it will come out in the end of course. But in the beginning there are few and far between, and this secrecy will keep the expedition from panc.]]

[[Nayaraq-]]

[[I need someone to help me find indigene without families, I won't be able to do it alone. That's why,]] says Nayaraq.

She turns her away from him and then lets her robes fall away from her back. On her wrinkled skin he sees the outline of a circle cut deep into her flesh, perfect and pitch black.


	16. Part 15

MERCHANTS WITHOUT A COUNTRY

By a stroke of luck, the Rosewater managed to escape Slaver's Bay, now the Bay of Dragons, just before the battle that would result in this name change took place. This also means that the Rosewater escaped the chaos in the bay that followed soon after that, when the Mother of Dragons loaded her army of eunuchs and barbarians onto a great fleet, her eyes set on Westeros. Qasim, the balding, obsessive, and nervous man that captains the Rosewater, took these instances as the clear omens that they were: war will spill into the sea, and any merchant ship caught by an army in need of supplies is liable to be left barren and uncompensated.

So where is the Rosewater to go? Sailors in the port taverns speak of rumors that the Iron Fleet is already in the Narrow Sea, taking advantage of the unguarded coasts left behind by the inland Houses that now fight against one another. Some say that Euron Greyjoy, Lord Reaper of the Iron Islands, has allied himself with the new queen Cersei Lannister - such an alliance becoming necessary once the Mother of Dragons swallowed up the young man who claimed to be her younger brother. Salt encrusted taverns are alive with stories of how the Khaleesi tested the alleged Targaryen and found him wanting, and how Princess Arianne of Dorne, no longer bound by bonds of blood, has cast her lot with the Dragon Queen.

This means the Dornish coasts should be free of interlopers, thinks Qasim to himself. But this is not guaranteed: wild stories abound of what's washed up in the Iron Fleet's wake. Sailors give reports of a fleet of strange swan ships, made up of bright reds, greens, and yellows, flying flags of unknown origin. The newest rumors are that owners of these strange ships have overtaken Vintner's Bastion on the Arbor and Castle Starfall in eastern Dorne. Although fantastical, the rumors are not unfounded. Before they pulled up anchor at Myr, his first mate Gostanza, usually possessed of a serious and humorless disposition, showed him a coin of a make he's never seen before. A thick disc of gold, with foreign writing encircling a sun on one side and a long delicate feather on the other.

"They call it a gold quetzal," said Gostanza as she showed it to her captain, "if you were to smelt it down you would have enough gold to make two gold dragons and still have some left over to make earrings."

Qasim hasn't stopped thinking about it since.

As the Rosewater makes her way west toward Dorne Qasim takes the time to consult his figures. He doesn't need much more to be able to afford that house in Lorath, where he'll be on solid land, near the woods, and far from marauding fleets of belligerent nobles. In his captain's quarters, when the door is closed, he goes to the back corner near a porthole. With three quick taps he dislodges three false boards in the wall. From there he produces a leather bound book, which he takes to his desk.

He flips it open and squints at the numbers. Disbursements on the left page and receipts on the right, the book tallies the various trading seasons of his maritime life. This bifold system is something he picked up when he first opened an account with the Iron Bank. How long ago was that now? Qasim wonders to himself, must be, twenty, twenty five years next month. He'd been saving before then too of course, but an account at the Iron Bank must keep in balance a minimum of one hundred dragons - anything less is too trifling a sum for them to deal with. According to his little ledger, and the rate of appreciation the Iron Bank has promsed him, it will still be another seven years before he's able to retire like he wants to. And that's assuming all of those seven years are good ones. Considering there are warships in the Narrow Sea and the approaching winter, the prospect of good years seems dim.

If I could trade in gold quetzals, thinks Qasim to himself, I'd only need three and a half good years. But he doesn't know if the foreigners have that many gold quetzals they're willing to part with, nor even what they would want for them in the first place. Qasim turns to the latest page in his ledger. The numbers simply aren't as high as he wants them to be.

After an hour or so of triple checking his math in hopes of finding a favorable error, Qasim steps out of his quarters and out onto the main deck. The route he's chosen to get his ship from Myr to Planky Town veers far off into the more open ocean, necessarily so, in order to avoid running into hostile vessels. This long journey, although safe, does do something to the mind. All around him is the malaise: the crew sits around either playing liar's dice or gazing absent mindedly at some faraway clouds, murmuring to one another in hushed tones that a light rain might liven up the trip.

His first mate Gostanza is up at the helm, and with nothing else to do, Qasim decides to ask for his daily report.

"Well captain," says Gostanza, "I wish we had brought a board to play cyvasse. I'm getting real tired of liar's dice and there's only so many times I can hear Two-Eyed Tom tell that red priestess story before I just start wanting to wring his neck."

"Do you know how to play cyvasse?" asks Qasim.

"No," says Gostanza, "I thought you would."

"Haven't played since I was a boy," says Qasim, "mostly I play raz-anpia when I'm in port."

"Your tile game from Qarth," says Gostanza, "what is that one about?"

"You play as nobles trying to seize lands and raise armies," says Qasim, "a little less warlike than cyvasse. More about diplomacy than tactics."

"Hrmm," says Gostanza, "would you teach me to play?"

"I-" begins Qasim. An idea strikes him.

"How much would you pay me for learning raz-anpia?" asks Qasim.

"Captain, are you really-"

"Humor me," says Qasim, "we still have a week left before Planky Town. How much would you part with, to learn the game and use my tiles?"

"I dunno captain," says Gostanza, "let me think."

She thinks for a moment.

"You can use the pieces whenever," adds Qasim.

"I'd say," says Gostanza, "maybe fifty stags. Because of the pieces, as they're pretty and require craftsmanship to make. Otherwise there's no sense in knowing the rules of a game you can't play."

"Fifty stags," says Qasim, "a tidy sum."

"It's higher now because well we're at sea," says Gostaza, "had I the time, I could find a cheaper set."

But all folk find their minds cooked dizzy from the sun and worn down by the endless waves, thinks Qasim to himself.

"Am I really going to have to pay to learn raz-anpia, captain?" asks Gostanza.

"No no," says Qasim, "you get to learn for free."

* * *

By the time the Rosewater tosses anchor in Planky Town even Two-Eyed Tom can identify all the pieces necessary to play raz-anpia. Not all the men take to it - of the crew of fourteen four remained loyal to liar's dice - but most took it as a welcome relief to the tedium of the voyage. Once in port a few set out to find the materials to carve their own, or perhaps find a painted and lacquered set like Qasim's that some highborne lordling isn't paying attention to. Qasim encourages them to take advantage of their leave and gives them a fortnight. That's how long he'll need to secure a decent set of wares to sell.

With Gostanza at his side Qasim makes his way through the bustling market that sits adjacent to Planky Town's aging wooden docks. Nearest the water the air is thick with the briny smell of fish and the sounds of men shouting their work to one another. As one makes their way further into town this gives way to the leather and iron smell of merchants selling weapons and armor to sailors who might need to replace their armaments or who've found themselves with more plunder than they can carry. Further along in a great central square, surrounded on four sides by rickety wooden homes past their prime, is Planky Town's main market. Here the artisans shout out their prices and their wares at the top of their voices and spice merchants sweep their hands over small mountains of various exotic dusts.

"No more barley?" asks Gostanza, "no more wine?"

"No," says Qasim, "those won't sell."

"People everywhere need something to eat and drink captain," says Gostanza.

"That they do first mate Gostanza," says Qasim, "but there's no sense in trying to sell wine on the Arbor, nor grain so near to the Reach."

"The Arbor?" ask Gostanza. Then after a moment: "Ah, so we're chasing gold quetzals."

"Indeed we are," says Qasim, "which means we'll need a different set of goods."

Among the great chaos of stalls the captain and his first mate find for their cargo: Dornish olive oil, Lhazareen cumin, Qartheen garlic, even a jar of saffron, the red gold, as big as a man's head. The merchants they buy them from are as varied as their wares, old men, young women, and with the saffron, a pair of children with no parent in sight. Qasim closes their bargaining briskly each time. I might lose a little now, thinks Qasim to himself, but the foreigners won't have any routes out this far for spices if they've truly taken Starfall and Vintner's Bastion like everyone says, they'll still be busy trying to feed whatever army they've brought with them. That could also mean they won't be interested in spices, he thinks to himself. He tries to banish this thought from his mind but it has an unpleasant stickiness to it.

Or perhaps it's his second gamble that's stirring his worry.

Qasim and Gostanza depart from the central market and make their way toward the northern district where the artisans live. Here the streets go from dirt to cobblestone and the buildings from rickety to sturdy and clean. Qasim inquires in a few shops and is directed to the home of a sandy Dornishwoman by the name of Ara, widow of Martin who was once a lord's carpenter, who learned a great deal from her husband.

Her home is modest and doubles as her workshop. Like any good workshop the air inside is thick with the fine sawdust kicked up by the carpenter's steady work. From the doorway Qasim can see the artisan over by the window sanding down what looks to be a small table. Her hair is in a long braid that is more grey than black and her hands show their age by the practiced smoothness of their movement.

"Good afternoon," says Ara. She stops her work and approaches her prospective customers.

"Good afternoon," say Qasim and Gostanza.

"How may I be of service?" asks Ara.

"Do you have any sets of raz-anpia to sell?" asks Qasim.

"Raz-anpia," says Ara, "now that's a name I haven't heard in some time. Yes milord, I have three sets."

"Only three?" asks Qasim.

"I'm afraid so," says Ara, "in Dorne all anyone plays is cyvasse, which is challenging enough of a game to learn and master. There's not so much appetite to learn another."

"How many cyvasse boards do you have to sell?" asks Qasim.

"Ten milord," says Ara.

"We'll take the ten cyvasse boards and the three raz-anpia boards all," says Qasim.

Ara raises her eyebrows.

"Of course milord," says Ara, not without a small chuckle.

"How long would it take you to make more?"

"Well," says Ara, "the raz-anpia sets are a little quicker. Less tiles than cyvasse and you only need to make five kinds of pieces, all rather simple, instead of ten. The cards I can get from the old man down the street that makes parchment. I could make perhaps two or three of those a day. Cyvasse set takes a little longer because the pieces are more intricate,

"You could simply make the cyvasse pieces all coin shaped," says Gostanza, "and simply mark on them what piece they're meant to be."

"Of course," says Ara.

"Though the game does lose some of its prestige that way," says Qasim. He thinks for a moment, "can we commission you to make raz-anpia sets then?"

"I have a bit of work to finish first," says Ara, "but after that I certainly have time. How many would you like?"

"As many as you can make," says Qasim.

* * *

Raz-anpia is a game played with four players. The game begins with players taking turns placing their initial castles and armies on the board. Once that's done the game is played in rounds, with dice determining which castles earn food or iron or other resources. The cards allow the players to trade and deliberate, and the army pieces allow them to threaten and compete. Point are gained for armies, castles, workers, and resources, and the first to twelve points wins. Unlike in cyvasse were one must concentrate on the hard strategy of the pieces and the board in raz-anpia a player can play the more human game of wheeling and dealing. And it leaves less people to sit and watch, besides.

Although Qasim is wary of any of the pieces to the raz-anpia sets becoming lost overboard, he lets the crew play as many games of that or cyvasse as they want. From Planky Town they set out for the far side of the Arbor, or as the stories say it's now called, The Place of Berries, and once again Qasim has the Rosewater put distance between herself and the coastal waters. Thanks to the game sets however, the crew is less despondent than it was over the last leg of their journey. Even Gostanza seems to have taken to raz-anpia, especially when she wins.

Once they finally approach what was once the Arbor they see what all those tavern stories were talking about. On the horizon, just nearer to the Rosewater than the dot that is the island, is a ship that looks to be quite tall even at that distance. As it approaches all the details come into shape: swan ships of pale yellow wood, with lines of paint in green and red, flying curious triangular flags with foreign insignias.

"Captain?" asks Gostanza from the helm.

"Stay the course," says Qasim. He knows that should the foreigners prove unfriendly there's no way the few sabers they have on board will hold out against the combined strength of a swans ship full of warriors. But he cast this die back in Planky Town, and for once Qasim finds himself at a strange ease. All that's left to do is see.

The swan ship has the good fortune of a favorable wind and approaches the Rosewater with a speed that surprises Qasim. He's seen the graceful swan ships of the Summer Isles at sea before, and these foreigner's ships seem to be their equal. When the foreign swan ship comes close enough for the people on board to come into focus it pulls to starboard, just in the Rosewater's path. At the very tip of it's bow a man waves his arms in the universal style of a person seeking another's attention.

"Bring her around," says Qasim upon seeing this.

The size of the foreign swan ship comes into clear relief as the Rosewater pulls alongside it - easily twice as long and with another set of floors so that it's main deck stands clear above the Rosewater's.

Qasim's fear rushes back to him then. There at the mast with Gostanza he has the sudden urge to jump overboard, but he remains stable enough to know this would not save him.

"Good day sailors," says a voice from above, "My name is Dimarus, I speak for the captain of the Amistli, do we have your permission to board your ship?"

"Would you respect my decision if I said no?" asks Qasim.

"It's not up to me captain," says Dimarus, "but they wouldn't, no."

"You may board," says Qasim.

A rope ladder comes down and with it come seven people. Of these seven only one is Westerosi. The man that Qasim presumes to be Dimarus is a pale man, with dark brown hair, blue eyes, and the weathered features of a young man aged by the sea. The other six are the foreigners - what do the stories call them? The Atlacal.

In truth, they don't seem initially so different from Qasim. Like him they have brown skin, although theirs seems to have a slightly richer hue. They have black hair like him, or well, like how he used to have. From there however their differences confuse him. High cheekbones, hunched noses, and almond-like eyes - almost like those of travellers from Yi Ti. A curious garb that reminds him something of the Dothraki, something of Lys, and something of the Summer Isles.

The four men carry maces of obsidian under their red cloaks and are protected by brown and red armor that looks like a strange leather at first glance. The two women wear blue cloaks, and tunics in a lighter blue, with belts heavy with bags of who knows what. It's these latter two that accompany Dimarus when he steps forward to speak.

"Who may I ask is the captain?" asks Dimarus, projecting his voice loud.

"That would be me," says Qasim. He signals for Gostanza to remain calm and at he helm and goes over to the strangers. "I am Qasim."

"Captain Qasim," says Dimarus with a slight bow, "the Atlacal want me to let you know that you've entered into Alliance territory."

"Whose Alliance?" asks Qasim.

"That of the foreigners," says Dimarus, "they control the Arbor now."

One of the women in blue tunics gives Dimarus a look.

"Forgive me," says Dimarus, "The Place of Berries."

"Are you their captive?" asks Qasim.

"Yes," says Dimarus.

"Will they take us captive?" asks Qasim.

"No," says Dimarus, "only if you take up arms against then. Otherwise, they'll let you pass."

"Is that what you did?" asks Qasim.

"I served my liege lord," says Dimarus, "and now that my liege lord is dead I am his enemy's prisoner. Such is war."

Qasim looks from Dimarus to his handlers, then leans in a bit closer.

"Should we leave?" asks Qasim.

"We speak your tongue," says one of the women in blue, "you speak to us all."

"Pay your tribute," says the other woman, "keep peace. No harm come to you."

Qasim looks back to Dimarus.

"They can be bloody when they want to be," says Dimarus, "but so long as you don't raise your banners they'll leave you be."

"Good then that we don't have banners to raise," says Qasim.

The women in blue, who Dimarus says are called Needles, explain that the Rosewater will have to be searched for weapons, and that any found will be confiscated. When Qasim asks if he and his crew will be compensated for the confiscation, one of the four men in red pipes up and says:

"You life is you comm-pen-say-shun."

One of the women in blue says to him:

[[Silence Blade! Yours is not to do the talking!]]

Qasim finds himself unable to make heads or tails of this sing-song language, so unlike anything else he's heard during his maritime life.

With a bit of trouble the woman explains that the weapons are needed to secure Alliance territory, and that Qasim and his crew will have no need of them in these waters. Qasim doesn't believe this but he is in no place to resist.

Yet the rest of the voyage is quiet, and even once they arrive at the Place of Berries, in Caskport, there is little sign of agitation. Although the scars of the battles before remain and there is still flotsam and jetsam floating near the shore, the docks are already being repaired and the walls of buildings are being mended. Smallfolk - Westerosi smallfolk - go about their daily work bringing in the bounty of the sea or trading with the men who accomplish same. Amongst these is the occasional pair of red cloaked figures, the Blades, enforcers of the Triple Alliance. Unlike the Blades that Qasim saw on the ship that intercepted the Rosewater these are almost all pairs of women, and instead of obisidian maces they have iron sabers at their hips. The pairs of red cloaks don't seem to interact much with the smallfolk, they just patrol here and there, occasionally stopping somewhere to peer out over Caskport and converse with one another in their sing song language.

Unsure of what the rules of trade are now that the Atlacal comand the island, and once the Rosewater is moored to the dock, Qasim bids his crew stay with the ship as he, Gostanza, and Two-Eyed Tom go the Leaky Cask, tavern of sailors, to ask.

"They'll let you trade with anyone, pretty much," is what the proprietor tells him. For being in a war torn town the man seems chipper.

"Who is out here left to trade with?" asks Qasim, "the Redwynes - are they really all dead?"

"I don't think so," says the proprietor, "people say they're locked up in Vintner's Bastion somewhere, that the Alliance trots them out every now and again as proof of their mercy."

"And from nearby?" asks Qasim "Three Towers, Blackcrown, Oldtown?"

"Not much from those places ever since the Iron Fleet came through," says the proprietor, "between the Greyjoys raiding the Arbor and Oldtown and the Alliance sacking Starfall, sailors have been wary to try the waters."

"Hrmmm," says Qasim.

"But we're here, with gold to spend," says the proprietor, "in the evening their workers come to Casktown for food or drink and the coins they bring - you ought to see them. Bigger than a gold dragon, and they hand them out as easy as silver stags."

"You seem happy for their patronage," says Qasim.

"Well the fighting was unfortunate," says the proprietor, "but it was the Iron Fleet that did most of the pillaging and plundering. The Alliance delivered the final blow, true, but that was mostly in taking the Bastion and against the highborne. The smallfolk - well if anything, the smallfolk have done better under the Alliance than the Redwynes. Itzacoyotl - that's the name of one of their leaders - he broke up the land holdings of the highborne and started parcelling them out to the smallfolk who'd been living there the longest. People like owning the land they live on."

"He's given them land?" asks Qasim, "just like that?"

"Yes," says the proprietor, "oh he still ask for his share - their tribute they call it - but it's less than what the highborne asked for."

"How much is tribute?" asks Qasim.

The proprietor smiles a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"It doesn't really matter now," says the proprietor, "the farmer's sons paid it for us."

Then the proprietor says something in the sing song of the Atlacal tongue: [[Noble is their sacrifice.]]

As predicted, when evening falls, the various folk of the Alliance enter the Leaky Cask for their dinner and drink. Most of them wear cloaks of green or yellow, and they come in all shapes, and sizes. The women tend to keep their hair long and in braids while the men shave it down into curious styles: sometimes just the sides with a streak on top like a horse, sometimes all around save for a knot of hair on top, some of them completely bald, sometimes long hair bunched together into a single tail. All of them tend to bunch together, only interacting with the Westerosi when they call out for a drink.

"Beerre!" they manage in their thick accents.

The proprietor directs Qasim to a foreigner wearing a blue cloak, a man with a shaved head whose age is impossible to pin down.

Good evening, says Qasim in High Valyrian.

The man says nothing.

Qasim tries again in the Summer Tongue and in the trade talk to no avail.

"I only speak the tongue of this place," says the man in the blue cloak, "and my own."

"Good evening," says Qasim in the Common Tongue, "I am Qasim, a spice trader from far away waters."  
"I am Cuauh," says the man in the blue cloak, "a Needle of the Tlon."

"A pleasure," says Qasim, "I understand you are from far away waters yourself?"

Cuauh nods.

"And would you be interested in spices for trade? Perhaps some games of leisure?" asks Qasim.

"Trade?" asks Cuauh.

The two haggle over the prices - no small task given that Cuauh has never tasted cumin, garlic, or saffron, or ever played cyvasse or raz-anpia. With a snap of his fingers Qasim signals Two-Eyed Tom to reveal a few small jars of the spices in question. Cuauh takes them and opens each, sniffing the jar before pouring out some of the spice on his hand, then eating it.

"Tasty no? These are spices that you cannot find here on the Arbor-" begins Qasim.

"The Place of Berries," says Cuauh.

"Yes, forgive me," says Qasim, "you cannot find these here on the Arbor. They prefer different earths."

"Hmmm," says Cuauh.

"We have several barrels of each," says Qasim, "if you have kitchens working to feed your army I'm sure they would appreciate a new flavor to liven up the days."

Cuauh tastes a strand of saffron and smacks his lips as he appraises it.

"We would take payment in gold quetzals," says Qasim, "we've heard that is what you're people trade in."

"Gold," says Cuauh. He looks faraway as if his thoughts are still on the saffron, "indigene always want gold."

Qasim waits for him to continue.

"I understand a little," says Cuauh, "gold is pretty. Nice to wear on...how you say? Holy days. But even the Tlon doesn't need so much gold. You know what indigene tell me?"

He looks to Qasim, Gostanza, and Two-Eyed Tom now.

"He say he wants gold for to make a sword," says Cuauh, "can you believe? How useless. Is this what want? Gold sword?"

"Every man has a dream," says Qasim.

Cuauh grunts.

"For this, I give you gold," says Cuauh, motioning to the little jars, "but sell to Alliance, they pay in things. Leather leaf for smoke, xocolatl for spirit, maybe yakruna wood, if you can bring them more."

Those must be foreign spices, thinks Qasim to himsef, I might be able to sell those, but-

"We would prefer payment in gold," says Gostanza.

"And I prefer be home for ikualotl," says Cuauh, "but the wind spreads the kernel everywhere."

Qasim and Cuauh make their trade - a gold quetzal for an entire set of each of the spices. On seeing this the other Atlacal wander over to Qasim and his two crew and they start speaking in their curious tongue, asking Cuauh for a sniff of the spices and then extolling him to trade on their behalf. Swift business, until the jars run out.

"We still have a lot more offload," says Gostanza.

"We can load out and set out," says Two-Eyed Tom, "we trade what we have of cumin and garlic for this leather leaf and xocolatl and just sell those in Braavos. Braavosi pay a pretty penny for curiosities."

Qasim contemplates this. The Braavosi do like their rarities, but that route takes them back up the Narrow Sea, which he would like to avoid until this war between the Targaryen and the Westerosi Houses settles down. Depending on how much the Braavosi pay however he might just be able to make the sale up there then depart on a few days journey to Lorath, the last he'd ever have to take.

But seven years worth of money? All in one exchange? Well, maybe if I just made three and a half years, Qasim thinks to himself, could still find a home and nice land in the Lorathi forest with what I've got, just means I'd have to take up some little trade, a little work on the side, for my last luxuries. Still, even three and a half years worth of gold would be an impossible haul.

"Spice for spice," says Cuauh.

"Cuauh," says Qasim, "how many quetzals do you trade for leather leaf?"

"For leather leaf?" says Cuauh, "hmmm. In Ayamictlan, maybe one quetzal for a bag. But here, is more rare. Two, maybe three quetzals for a bag. This is good for you no?"

Qasim's eyes go wide.

"What makes it so valuable?" asks Qasim.

Cuauh laughs. He reaches under his cloak to reveal a wooden tube with a small bowl on one end. From a pouch he takes some shredded brown leaf, packs it into the bowl. On seeing this the proprietor begins shouting:

"No! No! Smoking outside!"

"I show him, I show him," says Cuauh as a form of excuse, "only to taste!"

He makes his way to the hearth and lights a piece of twine on fire, then sets the flame to the bowl. He breathes deep and then exhales a cloud of smoke. Qasim is reminded then of the Dragon Queen.

"Now you," says Cuauh, "breathe deep."

Qasim takes the pipe and does as he's told. Burning hot smoke fills his chest and coughs it back up, which causes Cuauh to laugh. Once he regains his breathe Qasim feels himself overcome by a wave of warmth, a soft fuzzy sensation just at the edge of his skin, and a vivid calm. His throat feels as if it's been burned but he finds this suddenly more tolerable.

"Leather leaf is good yes?" asks Cuauh.

The Braavosi would kill for this, thinks Qasim.

"Leather leaf is good," says Qasim.


	17. Part 16

THE DEATH OF NOCHTLI OF THE FIFTH SNAKE DAY

[[So what,]] asks Mixkoatl, [[are you one of the Remnants now?]]

This is what everyone has been asking lately.

[[I never said that,]] says Nochtli, [[I never said anything like that. I'm just saying that they took what is ours by law. They broke the law.]]

[[There are the circumstances to consider,]] suggests Mixkoatl.

[[Laws aren't breakable just because circumstances change,]] says Nochtli, [[laws being the same in different circumstances is the entire point of having laws. Or am I wrong?]]

Mixkoatl shrugs and takes a swig of water from his leather canteen.

Nochtli looks to the others around him. As with the other Blades slated to leave north in the morning, Nochtli and his troop are lodged in one of the many stone houses that once belonged to the various Westerosi merchants and artisans of the Place of Pale Stone. Dohate sits alongside Mixkoatl at the window, looking out at the rest of the inner court of the Place of Pale Stone, smoking the last of his leather leaf. On the other side of the room, sitting together near the top of the wooden stairs of this indigene house, are the three new members assigned to Nochtli's troop: Ahanu, the young man with long black hair form Hinojovo; Cuamatzi, the Atlacal with a shaved head from the eastern shores; and Itzamatul, who the others call the Heron because of how he looks. If this were a proper army they would have at least two more for the troop but more men than expected were lost to the Westerosi horsemen. The bloodpriests can heal much, but when a man's head is sliced off his shoulder even the Red Salamander's magic is useless.

[[Captain Nochtli,]] says the Heron, [[how many horse-men will we have fighting for us?]]

Word has reached the captains that only a dozen Blades had learned enough about riding to be of any use, and that although some Westerosi smallfolk had volunteered to ride in the name of the Alliance for gold and land, none of the higher ranking men had any faith in them.

[[Less than the Darkstar will have fighting for him, I can tell you that,]] says Nochtli.

* * *

Whats up fellow ASOIAF fans,

This next chapter is going to be pretty big! It's going to be another multi-pov chapter that encapsulates a battle - we will again be seeing things from Nochtli, Allyria, and the Darkstar's point of view as the Triple Alliance moves against High Hermitage! Basically: it will be a while before I update again.


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